


Accidental Man

by jusrecht



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: :DDD, Dom/sub Undertones, Fake/Pretend Relationship, I'm so sorry, M/M, and torturing the hell out of newt, but for some reasons it has grown into a case fic, none of the events in the movie happened, or so i thought, this is just fun and lulz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 01:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10911237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: Newt and Percival pretend to date each other for the sake of getting their families off their backs. (Except dead bodies keep getting in the way.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to take a break from all the smut so here it is, mostly fluff and failed attempt at humour :D This chapter only contains their first meeting though!
> 
> Title is a song by the Damnwells.

This was all Theseus’s fault.

 

Newt huffed and took another sip from his now lukewarm tea. He was tucked at a corner table in a rather shabby but comfortable coffeehouse in Greenwich Village—the only one who also served tea, or at least something approaching tea, in their menu—and busily confronting both his manuscript and correspondence.

 

Although correspondence might not be the right word, considering that he was practically talking to his mother, if through writing.

 

 _‘But darling,’_ her firm, decisive strokes appeared on the parchment, _‘this one is different, trust me. And very much your type. Handsome. Broad-shouldered. Deep-voiced. Commanding. With interest in magical beasts too. He could be a bit older, I suppose, given your penchant for older men, but–’_

 

‘Mum, please.’

 

_‘My point is, he could be the one.’_

 

Newt sighed deeply. The truth was, his brother could not always be held accountable for their mother’s obsession with finding The One for him. Except, this time, it _was_ Theseus’s fault. Because if he weren’t planning to come to New York City on Ministry business, then their mother would certainly never conceive the idea of tagging along for the express purpose of matchmaking her younger son.

 

Her newest candidate was Ernst MacDuff—‘ _met him at a wedding here, a very nice young man, especially for an American, and rather handsome too. Family descended from one of the Original Twelve. He’s the third son, but inherited quite a sum from his mother’s side of family some years ago. That seems to have caused a degree of tension between him and his older brothers, but no matter that. He’s nice and handsome and rich and guess what, he has a pet kneazle so I’m sure you two will get along splendidly.’_

 

All this information was cramped into the small bit of parchment that Theseus had specifically spelled for him when Newt first attended Hogwarts. Incredibly useful back then, it was now beyond precious, especially after Newt had started travelling around the world. He checked in weekly, making sure that his family at least knew where he was. The one time he had forgotten to check in while tracking a rather clever Tebo in the rainforests of Congo, Theseus had arrived with a colossal fuss at the Ministry consulate in Kinshasa until Newt finally emerged out of the woodwork.

 

All the convenient uses aside, Newt rather regretted the existence of the parchment at the moment.

 

‘I’m really rather busy, Mum, editing and stuff. Deadline’s next month.’

 

_‘Nonsense. Surely you can spare an hour or two to meet this nice young man for tea.’_

 

‘There’s no such thing as meeting for tea over here.’

 

_‘Really? How uncivilised. Where does a self-respecting citizen go to socialise then? A pub? A bar? ’_

 

‘Prohibition, remember?’

 

_‘How dull. Now I begin to consider the wisdom of throwing you into the arms of this dull lot.’_

 

‘So I don’t have to meet him?’ Newt wrote hopefully.

 

His mother’s answer appeared almost at once. ‘ _I didn’t say that._ _After all,_ _darling, he already agrees to meet you. We’re exchanging letters now. Name the time and place and I’ll let him know.’_

 

That made Newt raise an eyebrow. ‘You’re exchanging _letters_? Are you sure you’re not the one who’s interested in him?’

 

_‘Don’t be impertinent, Artemis. He’s your brother’s age.’_

 

‘Barely twenty-year difference then.’

 

 _‘Actually it_ _’s only eighteen.’_

 

‘See? And you’re very, very pretty, Mum.’

 

 _‘Stop it._ _’_ Newt bit down a grin. He could almost see the half-amused, half-exasperated expression on his mother’s face. _‘You’re only trying to get out of this.’_

 

‘Yes, I am.’

 

_‘If you would only meet him once–’_

 

‘Seriously, Mum, I’m really not interested. To meet him or anyone else for that matter.’

 

_‘Give me one good reason why.’_

 

‘I’m sort of seeing someone.’

 

It was only after he had read the sentence three times that Newt realised what he had just written.

 

_Bugger._

 

There was no response from his mother for some time. Newt was about to go down the _ha-ha only kidding_ road when she replied with one terse word.

 

_‘Who?’_

 

‘An American.’ Bless written conversation. No one could hear him pause. Or stutter.

 

 _‘Really?’_ Even through writing, his mother’s incredulity was nothing short of obvious. _‘Who is he? **What** is he? What’s he like?’_

 

‘He’s very handsome. Late thirties. Salt and pepper hair. Impeccable fashion sense. And he likes croissant and espresso for breakfast.’

 

Later, Newt would blame his mother’s interrogative style for this reckless answer. And the fact that he was describing the very person sitting in front of him, only two tables away, enjoying (yes, you’ve guessed it) a cup of espresso and a croissant.

 

And yes, Newt might have spent the last five mornings here staring (surreptitiously!) at the stranger, but that’s beside the point.

 

_‘Huh. That does sound like your type. With broad shoulders and firm hands to spank naughty little boys too?’_

 

Newt’s face burned. It did not stop him from stealing another glance at the man. He really was terribly handsome, which might or might not have any bearing on his decision to have his breakfast there. He didn’t even usually have breakfast, but Pickett had rather been insistent of late and, well. The view, if he were to admit, was certainly not too bad at all.

 

‘Pretty big hands, yes.’

 

_‘Alright. That settles it. I’m going to New York with your brother next week.’_

 

Newt sputtered. Ironically, it was this reaction which drew the stranger’s attention to him. Newt glanced up, flustered, and their eyes met for half a second before he quickly looked down.

 

Just in time to see a black blur slipping under the next table.

 

“Oh, no, you don’t!”

 

Newt dove under the table, sending chairs toppling in his wake. This was a familiar battle, but the battleground was not in his favour. He kept bumping into the leg of this table or the seat of that chair, things that Niff with his smaller build had markedly less trouble to navigate around. The blasted creature was almost at the door when he suddenly stopped, as if frozen.

 

Newt seized the chance and grabbed him by the nape. Niff made a series of panicked noises but otherwise remained frozen in his flight-to-freedom pose. Newt frowned. It was only after he had risen to his feet and glanced at the only other guest in the room that he realised what had happened.

 

The other man had stood up as well. His right hand was raised slightly, fingers half curled inside. Only then did Newt feel the last vestiges of fading magic swirling in the room.

 

“It was you,” he said faintly, clutching Niff to his chest. “Thank you so much. He would’ve escaped– not that he was dangerous, more a nuisance, really. So sorry. This is a niffler but he’s perfectly harmless–”

 

“I know what it is.”

 

Newt blinked. _Well, bugger._ Even the voice was exactly to his liking, dark and smoky like fine whisky. He probably should mention that too the next time his mother–

 

Newt’s heart plummeted. The parchment. It was no longer on his table, which had been knocked over to the side. It wasn’t on the floor either.

 

It was, in fact, in the other man’s hand.

 

And he was reading it.

 

_Merlin’s balls._

 

Those thick eyebrows were slowly rising. Newt’s stomach was now twisting painfully. He still remembered every detailed (not to mention exaggerated) description, every honest (unedited) expression of admiration—and hadn’t his mother said something about spanking?

 

When the man’s dark, unreadable eyes finally fell on him again, Newt had the most horrible blush on his face. “I’m really sorry,” he said miserably.

 

The other man didn’t answer. Instead, he waved his hand and Newt felt sudden, rigid pressure around his arms and chest. Not just pressure. Chains. The man had conjured _heavy iron chains_ to tie him up. And Niff. Who was trapped against his chest and now making a racket with his shrill panicked noises.

 

“You will come with me to MACUSA,” the man said grimly.

 

Newt swallowed. He was under arrest. Again.

 

_**End Chapter 1** _

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
  


The man turned out to be a high-ranking official in MACUSA.

 

Which was just the kind of rotten luck Newt had on daily basis. Silent and miserable, he trailed after his captor into the imposing building that housed the entire hierarchy of the American wizarding government. The sea of people parted to make way for them—or, to be precise, for the man escorting him.

 

Newt could feel curious eyes following his progress through the grand hallway down to the elevator. His face burned. His mind flew wretchedly to Theseus, who had just been promoted to the headship of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The last thing he needed was an embarrassing little brother who got arrested across the Atlantic out of sheer stupidity.

 

Newt could already list all the charges they would make against him. Violating the Statute of Secrecy, for one. And bringing magical creatures into the country without proper license. Endangering the public, possibly, since every magical creature had been declared dangerous in America anyway (what an idiotic law). And maybe also… infringement on privacy? Sexual harassment, even? Surely everything he had written on that blasted parchment fell under the category of compliments, but who knew what these Americans would think.

 

He was brought into a neat, formal-looking office—the kind that always made him fidget in discomfort. The name plate on the desk read _Percival Graves._ It sounded familiar, Newt thought warily, although he couldn’t remember exactly where he had heard it before. In the paper? Not a good sign. And it wasn’t too difficult to guess a few things. For example, everything about this Mr Graves screamed ‘Auror’ from miles away.

 

Newt sighed. Just his usual luck.

 

He sat down gingerly in front of the large office desk, trying not to stare as Graves took off his scarf, coat, and jacket, and each piece of clothing floated obediently to their assigned place on the hanger. He looked just as good in vest and shirt, Newt thought admiringly, which was rather unfair. The man obviously paid meticulous attention to his appearance, but there was something else, something in the way he carried himself, a kind of casual self-assurance that made him look good in anything— _except these are two facts which have absolutely no bearing on your predicament right now_ , Newt told himself sternly.

 

Graves took his place on the other side of the desk and waved a hand to vanish the chains.

 

“Try anything suspicious and I will chain you to my desk and do what your mother has advised me to do.”

 

Newt slumped into his chair, face burning. He would’ve buried his face in Niff’s fur if he had thought that it would help, instead of injure, his situation. Niff, for once, didn’t try to escape, sitting stiffly in the circle of Newt’s arms instead, large, beady eyes fixed on the wizard who had plucked freedom so easily out of his paws.

 

Graves took his name and checked his papers, which Newt only relinquished with the utmost reluctance. Not that he had any other choice. He only hoped that Graves wouldn’t insist on giving his suitcase more than a cursory inspection.

 

“Scamander? Any relation to Theseus Scamander, the war hero?”

 

“Distant relatives,” Newt replied hurriedly, with a guilty twitch of a smile. The other man raised an eyebrow but didn’t challenge his words.

 

“So what are you doing in the United States, Mr Scamander?”

 

“I’m writing a book. About magical creatures.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

Newt frowned. “It’s true,” he said, a bit irritably. This certainly wasn’t the first time he had met this kind of reaction over his explanation, but it never stopped to rankle with him. “I have drafts and notes if you care to see them. In fact, I’m supposed to turn in my manuscript next month.”

 

Graves observed him up and down. Something in his gaze made Newt feel supremely uncomfortable and he resisted another ridiculous urge to hide behind Niff.

 

“You’re the guy who has been dropping information about magical creatures at my crime scenes.”

 

**_His_ ** _crime scenes?_

 

Another wave from Graves’s hand conjured pieces of parchments of varying sizes on the desk between them. Newt paled a little, recognising his own handwriting. The topmost parchment contained directions to take care of an injured unicorn. The one next to it described in minute details how to behave around hippogriffs. Yet another explained rather lengthily on the traits of kelpies and why suspecting them for a series of accidents happening in Portland was not only erroneous but also downright idiotic.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Newt said wretchedly. “I didn’t mean to interfere with your crime scenes, but, see, MACUSA has been rather ignorant about magical creatures–”

 

“So I’ve gathered,” Graves interrupted him. “On the other hand, you, I take it, are an expert.”

 

“Not quite an expert, no. Well, I’m a Magizoologist.” At Graves’s blank face, he quickly added, “I study magical creatures. Beasts. Like I said, I’ve been travelling to write a book.”

 

“About magical creatures.”

 

“Yes. It’s abominable, really, the way wizardkind treats magical beasts. As if they exist only to be killed or exploited to the last drop of their blood, or the last feather in their tail. The problem is this kind of attitude comes largely from ignorance, so what I’m trying to do is to provide the general public with more information about the creatures.”

 

“Including magical beasts here in America?”

 

Newt bit his lower lip, aware that he was treading dangerous grounds. “That is my intention, yes.”

 

“But most of them have been exterminated.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Magical beasts in this country.”

 

Newt tried so hard not to roll his eyes. He failed. “Mr Graves, these creatures are not stupid. They might find a wand-wielding wizard who’s only happy to resort to a killing curse at the slightest glimpse of a wing or a tail terrifying, but they’re _not_ stupid. Most of them have gone into hiding–”

 

He stopped himself at that point, suddenly remembering that he was talking to an Auror. Who had been sworn to uphold a ridiculous set of laws regarding magical creatures. Kill on sight or some such. Barbaric didn’t even cover it.

 

Graves smiled, baring his teeth. He obviously could guess what Newt was thinking. “Yes, Mr Scamander?”

 

Newt looked away. “My point is,” he continued feebly, “I didn’t come here to create any disturbance. My only purpose is to observe the habits of magical creatures native in the country.”

 

“And that is all?”

 

“That is all.”

 

“Fine.” Graves’s leaned back in his chair, dark eyes still fixed on him. “Let’s say I believe you. As someone with your expertise, what will you say if a dead body is found with half of its torso missing?”

 

Newt stared at him. “What does that mean, ‘missing’?”

 

“As in eaten, I suppose.”

 

Newt winced a little at that. “Are you sure? The marks left by a set of teeth, or fangs, are completely different from, say, the result of a Diffindo spell. Or the conventional blade.”

 

“Yes, that’s why I’m asking you right now,” Graves said dryly.

 

“Well,” Newt said reluctantly, “there are a number creatures that have been known to eat human flesh, both magical and non-magical. Was the victim a wizard?”

 

“Two victims so far, a wizard and a witch.”

 

Newt frowned. “I suppose it _could_ be magical creatures, but the thing is, they don’t usually go for humans unless they have to. We pose a great threat to them, much more than they are to us.”

 

“But it _is_ possible?”

 

“Yes, but…” Newt sighed and resigned himself to more unpleasantness. “Can I see the bodies? Or is there a picture?”

 

Graves snapped his fingers and several photographs appeared on the table. Newt stared, unable to look away from the horrible pictures; two mangled bodies, a few close-ups of the ‘missing’ torso, mauled limbs, torn tendons, exposed bones. Objectively speaking, it was no more horrible than some of the things he had encountered in his travels, but the sheer impersonality of the pictures, the fact that this was a murder investigation, made his insides recoil.

 

“I apologise,” Graves suddenly said, his voice gentler. “I should’ve warned you.”

 

“I’ve seen worse.” Newt took a deep breath and sat up straighter, tightening his arms around Niff for moral support. “That, if I’m not mistaken, is the work of a quintaped. Possibly more than one. Although one is enough to create that kind of damage.”

 

“And what, in Lewis’s name, is a quintaped?”

 

“It’s a five-legged creature native to this small island near Scotland, so if one is lurking around here, then someone must’ve brought it in, most likely through illegal means. They’re rumoured to be very vicious, but to be honest, most of it is just defence mechanism. If you’re attacked, then you will respond, won’t you? And the local legends say –”

 

“How does one deal with these creatures?” Graves cut his ramblings short.

 

Newt blushed. “Well, no one really knows? The Ministry—that is, the British Ministry of Magic—issued a warning some decades ago after a series of accidental deaths involving quintapeds. And since then, no one has ever really studied them. Although from my experience, they seem to be quite fond of firewhisky.”

 

“You’ve seen them before.” It was a statement, not a question.

 

“I’ve come across one in my travel, yes.”

 

“And firewhisky makes them, what, more docile?”

 

“Not docile, per se, but, uh, maybe less likely to attack at the slightest provocation?”

 

Graves passed a hand across his face and heaved a deep sigh. Newt could not help a twinge of sympathy.

 

“They like to be around water, if that helps?” he suggested meekly.

 

“Very well, Mr Scamander.” Graves looked at him again, new determination in his eyes. “Your papers say that you’re an employee in the British Ministry of Magic. I suppose I will be able to confirm this?”

 

“Yes,” Newt muttered, stomach sinking.

 

“You don’t sound very sure.”

 

“Yes.” Newt cleared his throat. “I mean, you will be able to confirm it, Mr Graves.”

 

“Then I will.” Graves scribbled a few words on a piece of paper and sent it hurtling outside. “It should be easy enough to check. The reason why I ask, Mr Scamander, is mainly because if everything goes well and nothing suspicious is found, then I’d like to offer you a consulting job in MACUSA.”

 

“I’m not looking for a job,” was Newt’s automatic answer.

 

One corner of the other man’s lips twitched. “With an official position in the government, you will be able to gain more access for your research. Not to mention through legal means, should you happen to care about such things.”

 

Newt bit down a rude retort and settled on a polite, modestly interested query. “What sort of a job?”

 

“As a special consultant on the field of magical beasts. Isn’t that your expertise?”

 

“I suppose I know more than most people but…” He frowned. “Is this because what I said about the quintapeds?”

 

“You obviously knew what you were talking about,” Graves said pointedly. “Or did I misjudge you?”

 

Newt was tempted to point out that if he had any misgivings about the job offer, then it would be due to the absolutely abominable creature ‘laws’ that MACUSA insisted on enforcing throughout the country. Only sheer prudence over his entire situation (and Theseus, remember _Theseus_ ) stopped him from actually voicing any of it out loud.

 

“I’m not sure if I’ll be able to help much,” he admitted uncertainly.

 

Graves shrugged. “Honestly? At this point, any information will be helpful.”

 

Newt sank even deeper in his seat. Niff was wriggling uncomfortably in his lap until a glance from across the desk promptly stilled him. It was an interesting reaction, Newt noted absentmindedly. He should ask Mr Graves to teach him how to do that.

 

“I suppose I could try,” he finally decided with a sigh. 

 

“Excellent. Now.” Graves leaned forward slightly, steepling his fingers under his chin. “I believe it’s time to turn our attention to this.”

 

A stroke of wandless magic pushed the spelled parchment to the centre of the desk. Newt’s face heated up again. His mother had added a few more lines detailing her plans for the imminent visit, as well as a demand for Newt to describe in great detail certain parts of his new paramour’s anatomy.

 

Newt closed his eyes in misery. He wondered if his mother would like to visit him in prison. The choice of words she was using alone would provide enough legal materials to pave his way there.

 

Mercifully, Graves made no mention of any interesting reference to any part of his body. “Quite a neat spell work here,” he said instead. “Your idea?”

 

“No, my brother’s.”

 

“And you were talking to your mother.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

Graves smirked at his petulant tone. “I should thank you for describing me so generously.”

 

Newt wondered if a person could die from excessive humiliation. Or, at the very least, lose consciousness. Either would be helpful. Sadly, neither condition seemed predisposed to afflict him at the moment.

 

With the proof so clear and indisputable on the desk between them, however, denial was not only futile, but also absurd. In any case, Newt rather disliked lying. He sighed again. To hell with it. Might as well take the plunge now that he has reached this point.

 

“Look,” he began, stilted and awkward, “everything written there, it was... not intended for any other eyes except mine. And my mother’s. I don’t even know you. You were just sitting there, in that coffee place, every morning. I didn’t go there to stalk you or anything, I was just.” Newt forced himself to stop at that point before he could dig an even deeper hole under his feet. “All I’m saying is this shouldn’t have happened at all,” he added miserably.

 

“But now that it has, what do you think we should do about it?”

 

Newt glanced up warily. “What do you mean?”

 

Graves tapped a finger near the edge of the parchment. By this time, another line had appeared near the bottom, in Theseus’s bold handwriting—‘ _YOU HAVE A **WHAT**_ ’; Newt tried not to facepalm.

 

“You have quite a predicament here, Mr Scamander. Your mother seems pretty convinced that you have been seduced by a handsome, broad-shouldered, big-handed stranger who has a predilection to spa–”

 

“Oh my god can we just–” Newt groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “Please. Can we please forget _everything_ you ever saw in there? It was stupid. And private. Don’t you have privacy laws around here?”

 

“If you insist,” Graves conceded, although the amusement in his voice was nowhere near diminished. Newt forced himself to breathe, deeply and slowly, until he no longer felt like he would spontaneously combust.

 

Graves, he realised, was still looking at him.

 

“I did not mean to offend anyone,” Newt whispered in the steadiest, most sincere pitch he could manage.

 

“I’m not offended.” Graves’s voice was kind. For some reasons, it only made Newt feel another prick of humiliation. He glared at the guilty parchment, hoping that it would go up in flames.

 

It did not. He never did say that his life was easy.

 

“The truth is,” Graves continued, more solemnly this time, “I’m not unsympathetic to your plight. Rather familiar with it, in fact.”

 

“Are you,” Newt muttered dully.

 

“What I’m saying is we might as well help each other.”

 

At that, Newt couldn’t help but glance up, half in hope, half in disbelief. “So I’m not going to be arrested?”

 

“Not yet.” Graves shot him a smile that made Newt swallow and shiver. It was such a confusing reaction that he had to look away, again. “My proposal is this: I will help you and you will help me. Two months should be enough to fend both our families off for quite some time. On my part, I’ll only need your help for two major events, and in the meantime, you can also help me with the case.  I trust this will be a satisfactory arrangement?”

 

“I don’t understand,” Newt said faintly.

 

“Ah, just in time.” Graves motioned with his hand as a paper mouse scuttled in. It unfolded itself and hovered most accommodatingly in front of his face. Newt watched, entranced, until Graves spoke again. “Well, Mr Scamander, at least you seem to have told me the truth about yourself.” A pause. “Mostly the truth. You’re Theseus Scamander’s younger brother?”

 

Not for the first time, Newt found himself wishing that his brother were not _that_ famous. “Yes,” he muttered, deflated.

 

“I see.” A small frown touched the other man’s brow. “Well, no matter. My offer still stands. Will you accept the consulting job?”

 

“I suppose so,” Newt murmured into Niff’s fur.

 

“And my other offer?”

 

“Which other offer?”

 

Graves rose to his feet, moved around the table, and stopped just next to Newt’s chair. Newt watched him warily, heart practically in his throat. Silently, he lamented the loss of his earlier, much simpler life. The one he had had barely an hour ago. The one with no murdered bodies or constant trials that involved tons of humiliation. The one in which he was free to admire his occasional crushes from far away instead of having them looming over him like a predator.

 

Or taking one of his hands and bestowing a kiss on the back, like what Graves was inexplicably doing right now.

 

Niff made a little squeak that aptly represented Newt’s reaction.

 

“Newt Scamander,” the other man said with a gleam in his eyes, “will you do me the honour of being my boyfriend?”

 

_**End Chapter 2** _

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ssshhh, just let me enjoy this, okay (and let Percival enjoy it xD)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pretty short update, but I just want to post something today :)
> 
> Also, a note on Theseus and Percival because many have asked about this: in this fic they only know each other professionally. I've written plenty of them being BFFs so I want to try something different in this one.

“Are you alright?”

 

Newt looked up with a start, still reeling from the proposal, and found himself staring at a kindly, anxious face, framed by short dark hair. He blinked. It took him a minute to remember that they had been introduced, barely moments ago.

 

“Yes, thank you, Miss Goldstein,” he said hastily. “Perfectly alright.”

 

She smiled, uncertain, but didn’t pursue the subject. Newt sighed in relief and cast his gaze around—only to discover that he also had the attention of the other two people in the room. Auror O’Connell raised his eyebrows, looking a shade incredulous, but Mr Graves was visibly biting down a grin.

 

This time, Newt refused to surrender to any untimely blush. He stared fiercely at Graves’s tie and declared, in the steadiest voice he could manage. “So sorry. Please continue.”

 

To his relief, the others complied.

 

“As I was saying,” Graves picked up the thread, “Mr Scamander is an expert in magical creatures. And since he happens to be in the country, I’ve decided to bring him in to help. At the very least, he’ll be able to eliminate the involvement of magical creatures, should that happen to be the case.”

 

“It’ll certainly be helpful, sir,” Auror O’Connell replied, diplomatic despite the sceptical set of his mouth.

 

“It was obviously a creature’s work, wasn’t it?” Auror Goldstein said with a frown. “I dread to think what else could have caused that kind of damage.”

 

“A new, really diabolical spell is possible.” Graves grimaced. “Although I tend to agree with you. Mr Scamander has a theory, something about a quintet–”

 

“A quintaped,” Newt muttered plaintively.

 

“Yes, a quintaped.” The corners of Graves’s mouth twitched. That was when Newt knew that Graves had done it deliberately, to provoke a reaction out of him. He glowered at the man’s ridiculous(ly beautiful) collar clips. “You seemed certain that this creature was involved.”

 

“As certain as I can be from looking at the pictures.”

 

An astonished silence followed. “You want to see the bodies?” Auror Goldstein said incredulously.

 

‘Want’ was a problematic word, Newt almost pointed out, and not one that he would use in relation to the subject. In the end, he refrained and said instead, “If possible? And the crime scenes too. Their natural habitat is a small, rocky island, so it’s very likely that they’ll stay somewhere near water.”

 

“The river? The first body was found down at a pier in Brooklyn Heights.”

 

“Should probably check the sewers too.”

 

“You two go with him,” Graves told his aurors. “Report back to me after you’re done. The president wants an update on the investigation at least twice a day.”

 

“Understood, sir.”

 

They were dismissed. Newt rose to follow, one arm firmly wrapped around Niff, the other grabbing his suitcase. He turned around, took one step toward the door, and suddenly Graves was standing in front of him, putting his arm around Newt and placing a kiss on his cheek.

 

“We’ll talk again later,” Graves told him, complete with a smile that was all promise and warmth.

 

Newt possibly went into slight shock. He walked out of the office in a daze, only faintly aware that the other two were staring at him, gaping. 

 

“What did just happen?” Auror Goldstein asked in a whisper. Newt couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

 

“Richard O’Connell, Mr Scamander.” Auror O’Connell launched to his side out of the blue, grabbing his suitcase and seizing his now empty hand in a firm handshake. “Let me carry your case. So,” he dropped his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, “how did you know the Director?”

 

_Director? Graves is **the** Director of Magical Security? _

 

So that was why the name had felt familiar. Newt felt a little foolish. Theseus had probably mentioned him many, many times before. There had been a slew of high-profile cases reported in the newspapers too. As the Director of Magical Security, Graves would have overseen them all.

 

And Newt had been interfering with _his_ crime scenes.

 

Newt closed his eyes, sighing and lamenting his luck for at least the thousandth time.

 

“Mr Scamander?”

 

“We, uh.” Newt’s mind reeled a little at this sudden demand to tax its faculties. Thankfully, he had had plenty of practice from frequent encounters with this band of smugglers and that group of poachers. “We’ve met before. Socially.”

 

“Socially.” O’Connell deadpanned. “So you’re his… friend? Close friend? Intimate friend? Not that I’m being nosy or anything, but I’m just wondering if it’s the _social_ norm to kiss a friend’s cheek in this hypothetical _social_ scene where you two happened to–”

 

“Alright, that’s enough.” Auror Goldstein, thankfully, came to the rescue. She probably noticed how red Newt had become, judging from her guilty smile as she offered him her hand. “So nice to meet you, Mr Scamander. You can call me Tina.”

 

“Newt, please.” He returned the smile tentatively, and then remembered that he was still clutching at Niff. “Oh, this is Niff. He’s a niffler. That is, he likes shiny things so please keep them away from him. He’s usually very naughty, a regular pest if there’s one, but he’s been a bit silent today. Rather intimidated by Mr Graves, I suppose. He happened to help me a bit earlier, with Niff.”

 

O’Connell raised his eyebrows. “Of course, that’s what friends do, isn’t it? Helping each other with their special beasts–”

 

Tina stepped on his foot.

 

“Right. Sorry.” O’Connell cleared his throat. “So, you were saying about these quintets…”

 

“Quintapeds.”

 

“Yes, those. What are they exactly?”

 

Newt told them everything he knew about quintapeds as they made their way toward the elevator and down to the sixty-sixth floor. By the time he had finished, they were all staring at him in amazement, including the goblin in charge of the machine.

 

“You really _are_ an expert, aren’t you?” Tina sounded awed, her face open and impressed.

 

Newt bit his lips, embarrassed but pleased. He decided that he liked Auror Goldstein very much. “I’m interested in magical beasts, that is all.”

 

“I bet you’re good with all kinds of beasts,” Auror O’Connell commented, grinning at him.

 

“Well, I’ve never really studied non-magical beasts, so I couldn’t say–”

 

“What about the one in suit and tie?”

 

Newt frowned. “What kind of beast wears– oh!”

 

“Stop it, seriously,” Tina said sternly, except she was rather obviously biting down a smile of her own. “Please don’t mind this ass, Newt. He used to have a crush on Mr Graves, so whenever someone happens to–”

 

“Hey, so did you!”

 

“And I freely admit it, unlike someone else I could mention. As a matter of fact,” Tina lowered her voice, “the entire department probably has had a crush on Mr Graves at some point. He’s just that kind of person—but of course you know what I mean.”

 

“Yes,” Newt confirmed with a depth of feeling.

 

O’Connell slung an arm across his shoulders. “So how far have you two–”

 

“Rick, I swear–”

 

“Relax, Goldstein, this is for science.” He shot Newt a warm, friendly smile. “I was just teasing. Hope you’re not angry.”

 

“No,” Newt muttered.

 

“I’m normally a serious person–”

 

Tina snorted.

 

“–but it’s been a while since the Director provided us with any interesting grapevine material. I mean, the last time was with that French delegate, and that was, what, almost two years ago?”

 

This time, Tina made a definite sound of amusement. “It wasn’t his fault.”

 

“Of course not, but I’m just saying, if someone like him wants to go around breaking everyone’s heart—especially if the person involved is a very lovely, very temperamental woman—he better makes sure to do it as gently as possible. Hell hath no fury and all that. I lost half of my left ear in the ensuing fracas, if you happen to forget. The one before that too...”

 

Newt, to his mortification, found himself listening intently. By the time they arrived at the morgue, he had gleaned enough hearsays about three past lovers, five possible dalliances (four of which Tina claimed to be pure rubbish, rumours spread by said dalliances themselves), and an indeterminate number of heartbreaks which had followed the Director’s twenty years of service in MACUSA.

 

Not that any of these information had _any_ relevance to his job. Still, they might prove useful should they decide to go through with the charade—or so he convinced himself.

 

“Are you really sure about this?” Tina touched his left elbow gently as they stopped for inspections before entering the morgue.

 

Newt was oddly glad for her display of concern. “Yes,” he said with a weak smile. “I have to make sure that it’s really a quintaped. That it’s _really_ a magical creature at all.”

 

“We should have a magical creature specialist,” Tina sighed.

 

“So MACUSA doesn’t have a Beast division?”

 

“Of a kind,” Rick replied wryly. “It’s a subdivision in the Auror department, but there’s no specialist whatsoever involved. In fact, we take turns to fill the post. The ‘janitor duty’, as we call it.”

 

It took Newt a moment to understand what the other man was saying. “Because you only kill them,” he whispered, an unpleasant twist in his stomach.

 

Both glanced at him, but neither quite met his eyes. “Yes,” Tina finally said.

 

“That’s…” Newt swallowed thickly, trying to overcome his horror, “not right.”

 

“Well, nobody likes doing it,” O’Connell shrugged, a bit defensive, “but rules are rules. You know,” he paused, throwing a meaningful look at Newt, “you should talk to the boss.”

 

For once, Newt forgot to blush. “I will,” he said, frowning. Oh yes, he had plenty to talk about with Percival Graves.

 

_**End Chapter 3** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, that's Rick O'Connell from The Mummy fame :D


	4. Chapter 4

Newt was starting to regret his decision.

 

Not about the case, no. Seeing the dead bodies had been grim, true, but no less than necessary. At least now he was able to confirm, much to his own dismay, that a quintaped had been involved in the incident. (He refused to call it murder, ignoring the strange looks he was getting from both Auror O’Connell and Tina.)

 

Examining the crime scenes had been slightly less gruesome, although the lack of any conclusive evidence was baffling to say the least. Beasts left traces, always; unlike humans with their endless nefarious motives, beasts never bothered with covering their trails. And yet he could find no indication that any magical beast had ever been in the area.

 

This was one of many arguments Newt put forth in their discussion afterwards. With the President in attendance, the meeting took a far more sombre tone. The formidable woman made no comment on Newt’s presence, but she listened intently from the director’s chair, and then hammered him with question after question. Ten minutes later, Newt felt like he understood why she was the most feared woman in the country.

 

“Very well, Mr Scamander,” she said in the end of her inquisition, and her tone made him want to disappear into the earth. Only by pursing her lips slightly, she was able to make him feel both guilty and ashamed for the inadequacy of his answers.

 

“Mr Scamander has provided us with a fairly accurate sketch of the creature,” Graves spoke up in his calm, drawling voice. “Since this creature seems to prowl around the harbour, it’s probably worthwhile to set up a patrol. In pairs, just in case.” He turned to Newt. “Didn’t you mention something that could make it a bit less aggressive?”

 

“Firewhisky,” Newt said quickly.

 

“Yes, firewhisky. They should carry some around.”

 

The president stared at her director in disbelief. “You plan to let your Aurors carry _firewhisky_ with them during patrol?”

 

“I do,” Graves said decisively. “I don’t plan to be lenient on anyone who dares to taste even a drop though.”

 

They looked at each other, and then exchanged smirks. Newt looked down, suppressing a shiver.

 

“Alright then, let’s get this wrapped up quickly.” The president rose to her feet, signalling the end of the meeting. Newt kept his eyes on the floor, which accounted for his surprise when a hand entered his line of sight.

 

“Thank you, Mr Scamander,” Picquery said, and something in her tone compelled him to look at her in the eye. “For your help.”

 

Newt accepted her hand in a daze. Now he also understood how she had become the youngest president in MACUSA’s history.

 

Some of the wonder must have remained in his face, for the next thing he noticed was Graves looking at him, an amused smile on his lips.

 

“Don’t worry, she has that effect on everyone.”

 

Newt flushed, but forced himself to meet the other man’s eyes. “You don’t seem to be affected,” he pointed out, his voice coming out steadier than he actually felt. He always had trouble meeting anyone’s eyes for any length of time, but it was even worse with Graves. He seemed to belong to a class of his own, to Newt’s continued distress.

 

“We go way back. Even dated each other at some point before we both decided–” Graves paused, eyebrows arched. “Was that jealousy?”

 

Newt gaped. “Of course not!” he hissed, shooting glances at Tina and O’Connell who were trying their best to pretend that they weren’t eavesdropping. Or even in the room at all.

 

Graves was grinning now. “Rest assured, darling, my eyes are entirely on you—although my time is another matter entirely. I still have some matters to take care of, so should we meet again later? Here? Or would you like to come to my house for more privacy?”

 

There were choking sounds coming from Auror O'Connell’s direction. Newt wondered if his face would eventually catch fire if it kept getting hotter. “Here is fine,” he muttered.

 

“All right, then. Oh, I should return this to you.”

 

With a strange mix of mortification and relief, Newt took the spelled parchment from Graves’s hand. The man was smiling, in a way that suggested things best left unmentioned in polite society. “I’m looking forward to meeting your mother, should you be amenable to my suggestion.”

 

Newt made his escape as soon as he could, avoiding the two curious Aurors. He returned to his rented room downtown, which, despite its location in a rather unsavoury part of the city, suited his purpose well enough. All he needed was a place where he could lay his case down undisturbed.

 

Making rounds in his suitcase always managed to calm him down. The routine was something constant in his otherwise unpredictable life, and the individual attention he gave to each creature was the proof of his love. He did love them all and they returned his affection, each in their own way. Throughout the round, Pickett maintained a constant chatter in his ear, alternating between excited and judgmental. Dougal kept patting his hand mournfully, which made Newt look down every time in case he tripped and fell in the near future. Niff, on the other hand, was regaining his usual mischievous temper despite the suspicious glances he sometimes shot in Newt’s direction.

 

Afterwards, he spent almost an hour on the parchment arguing with Theseus, mostly about the shadiness of Americans (Theseus’s words) and why dating one of them was a colossally terrible idea (also Theseus’s words). The next half an hour was then carefully—if rather hopelessly—employed in a last effort to dissuade his mother from coming to New York. She returned the favour by subjecting him to a rather a long lecture on breeding and vetting.

 

(‘ _Do you know what **vetting** is, Artemis? It’s the first step I must do in the process of choosing the best stud to breed my entire stable–’ _ at which point Newt quickly interrupted her by declaring that there would not be, under any circumstances, any breeding involved in their case. After which his mother asked, why not? Well, Newt replied incredulously, in case his mother hadn’t noticed, Newt was her son, not her daughter, not that she had any daughter to begin with. And Mr Graves was obviously a man, so between the two of them, any attempt at breeding would be fruitless at best. To which his mother had replied in very impatient-looking cursive that anything could happen and she would rather err on the side of caution when the fate of her future grandchildren were at stake, thank you very much. Newt decided to give up at that point.)

 

He returned to the Woolworth Building at nine.

 

Graves was still sitting at his desk. He waved Newt in after barely a glance, his entire concentration focused on the stacks of paper spread on his desk, where five quills at once were hard at work. Ten minutes later, he finally joined Newt at the sofa.

 

“Sorry for the late hour. Can I get you anything to drink?” He nodded at an impressive array of bottles in the antique cabinet behind him. Newt quickly declined. Most of his creatures disliked the smell of anything alcoholic.

 

“So.” Graves set his attention on him after pouring himself a glass. “Do you have an answer for me?”

 

During moments like this, Newt really found his nervous disposition exasperating. The topic was awkward enough without any additional panic to make it even more difficult. Newt took a deep breath to steady himself.

 

“Well, I,” he began, and faltered at the sound of his own voice, and then began again, “I have given it some thought and… I find that I’m in receipt of your proposal, Mr Graves.”

 

To Newt’s distress, there was no response for some time. And then slowly, the other man smiled. It was a smile that turned the grey sky blue and cold weather warm. A smile that calmed a tempest. A smile that made Newt’s heart trip over itself.

 

_Bugger._

 

“My proposal indeed.” Graves leaned forward, and the increased proximity was disconcerting to say the least. “I’m glad.”

 

“It’s not…” Newt mumbled, flustered. “What should I call it then?”

 

“You may call it what you like, as long as your answer remains unchanged. Now, may I kiss you?”

 

“What– no!”

 

An eloquent eyebrow arched. “You don’t think there will be any kissing involved in the course of this… little comedy? How else are we going to convince them?”

 

“Where I come from, Mr Graves,” Newt stated with as much dignity as he could muster, “kissing in public is still seen as a sign of vulgarity and ill-breeding.”

 

Graves’s grin widened. “In private then?”

 

“That’s very– I don’t think it’s–”

 

“A joke, Mr Scamander.” How he wished he could punch the amusement out of the man’s voice. Or have it whispered in his ears to melt his insides a bit more, Newt wasn’t terribly picky. “Now, should we discuss the details?”

 

“Details?” Newt repeated weakly.

 

And that was how he discovered that ‘meticulous’ was Percival Graves’s middle name.

 

Either that or ‘sadistic’ and he just enjoyed torturing the hell out of Newt.

 

There was a list—a _real_ list, written in dark red ink on a roll of parchment. And not just any ordinary parchment. This was clearly a special parchment, a thick and formal-looking parchment in a suitably elegant shade of cream. It even had a black emblem on top, in the design of intertwined scorpions and vines. A large black quill wrote quickly in an elegant script as Graves began to list down every particular of their so-called agreement.

 

The arrangement would last for two months. It would cover every aspect of their public lives, be it social or professional. In Graves’s case, two major events would require their special attention: a family gathering that would take place the next weekend and a MACUSA ball at the end of next month. The same conditions applied to the visit of Newt’s family.

 

That was uncomfortable enough, although nothing too terrible. But then they began to discuss the more minute details—such as which parts of his body would be available for Graves’s perusal in public—and Newt nearly abandoned the entire project.

 

“I think this is a mistake.”

 

The surprise on Graves’s face looked almost genuine. “Why? I say we are making definite progress here.”

 

“I’m not…” Newt flushed, desperately considering another way to word his meaning without sounding like a complete nitwit, but alas failing. “I’m not really comfortable with the idea of… of giving anyone so much liberty with my person.”

 

“I’m not planning to take undue liberty with your person, Mr Scamander,” Graves replied dryly. “That’s why we are discussing this right now.”

 

 “Yes, but…” Newt trailed off again, unsure how to proceed. How could he make such a self-assured man understand that Newt was dreadfully awkward and his last relationship had not only ended in a disaster but also left him in such depths of humiliation that the mere idea of allowing _anyone_ to touch him again in any degree of intimacy was nothing less than terrifying?

 

“We can change anything you’re uncomfortable with.” Graves was still making his case. Newt forbore to point out that the _entire_ thing made him feel uncomfortable. “Still, some public display of affection will be necessary if we’re to pull this off successfully, especially in front of our families. Look, do you find me unattractive?”

 

“No!” The word had left his mouth before he could stop himself and definitely with far more vehemence than necessary.

 

The look on Graves’s face was positively smug. “I know you don’t. So.”

 

“But you don’t find _me_ attractive, so it’s a moot point to discuss about–”

 

“I do.”

 

Newt tried not to frown. “You’re very kind, Mr Graves, but I assure you, it’s quite unnecessary to–”

 

“Are you telling me that no one ever said that you were attractive?”

 

Humiliation was a terrible thing. This was one of the reasons why he tried to avoid interactions with other people as much as he could. Very few had really meant to give him insult, but that was exactly what was so terrible about humiliation. It came from inside, wreaked havoc inside, before souring everything else until the moment simply became unbearable.

 

“I’m perfectly aware what other people think of me, Mr Graves,” Newt said in a small voice.

 

“Are you, Mr Scamander?” He wasn’t looking at Graves, but he could feel the other man’s eyes on him. “Because I don’t think you are. And if no one ever said that they were interested in you, well, that’s simply a crime.”

 

Newt found himself tongue-tied in the worst way possible. He wished fervently that he hadn’t agreed to anything. Doubtless Graves meant to be kind, but even the most genuine kindness could be painful, especially when it stemmed from pity.

 

“I’m sorry.” This time, Graves’s voice was softer, kinder—and somehow, ten times more humiliating. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was teasing, yes, but it doesn’t mean that I wasn’t speaking the truth.”

 

“If you don’t mind,” Newt said roughly, all too aware of the hot tears that had sprung in his eyes, “I’d like to move on from this subject.”

 

There was a moment of silence. “As you wish,” Graves finally said, his tone neutral. After a while, he spoke again, “Look, Scamander, you don’t have to force yourself to do this. It was only an idea. I thought it would help us solve both of our problems, but if you really feel uncomfortable about it, then maybe it’s better to call the whole thing off.”

 

He was right, of course. Newt stared at his hands, trying to bring his sticky, jumbled thoughts into some semblance of order. Graves waited in patient silence, and for this Newt was grateful.

 

“But what about you?” he heard himself ask a moment later.

 

Graves shrugged, the movement visible from the corner of Newt’s eyes. “I’ll be fine. I’ve fended them off for the last twenty years. There’s no reason why I can’t keep it up for the next twenty or so.”

 

That pulled a tiny smile from Newt. He did not doubt that. And it wasn’t like his own mother wouldn’t understand. He might have to meet her candidate in the end and be awkward again throughout, but really, it couldn’t be anything too terrible, could it?

 

Newt smothered a wince at the prospect, and then came to a decision.

 

“I don’t mind if you touch my face,” he said quietly, the words leaving his cheeks hot. “Or my hands. Arms. Or put a hand on my back or waist or… what else?”

 

Graves stared at him. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes,” Newt muttered, ducking his head again.

 

“But?”

 

“There’s no ‘but’.”

 

“There _is_ a ‘but’. It’s written all over your face.”

 

Newt sighed, fighting an uncomfortable urge to fidget. “It’s… nothing. It’s just been a while since I had that sort of… physical intimacy with another person. So. If maybe you can do it gently?”

 

“Gently,” Graves repeated, his face blank. Newt could feel the beginning of another blush.

 

“I’m not used to… these things. Social interactions. Affectionate touches. I haven’t– the truth is I’m not really comfortable with people in general unless I have no other choice. Or under certain special circumstances. But I really appreciate your offer, Mr Graves, and you are right, it’s a solution to our problems, but perhaps if you can take it slow...”

 

“I’ll try.” There might be a hint of a smile on Graves’s lips, but it was muted. “I’m not exactly a kind person, Mr Scamander, as you’ve undoubtedly noticed, but I will keep that in mind.”

 

Newt nodded, a bit relieved. “Thank you.”

 

The rest of the discussion was easier. Graves went over the list quickly from the beginning and added all the necessary details Newt had asked. A small clause concluded the document, stipulating that should either party decide not to continue the arrangement, then the other party had no right to stop him. Then he added his signature and gestured for Newt to do the same.

 

Newt hesitated as the quill hovered impatiently next to his hand. “Is this really necessary?”

 

“Don’t you want to make sure that _I_ will behave myself?” Graves pointed out with a smirk.

 

“Well, I _hope_ that you will keep to your word, of course…”

 

“Too careless, Mr Scamander. Somebody less gentlemanly might have ideas to take advantage of you.”

 

“I wouldn’t enter into any agreement with someone less gentlemanly, Mr Graves,” Newt said severely.

 

“Ah, a compliment.” The other man grinned. “Be careful, or I might be forced to return your kindness tenfold until you smile at me.”

 

Newt would have liked to scoff at the suggestion but found himself (to his horror) biting down a smile instead. The man was perfectly incorrigible.

 

“And you might want to stop biting your lips, what’s with our no kissing policy and all... Not that you can’t change your mind, of course.”

 

“I should say that the chances are quite slight,” Newt replied in his most dignified tone. “Minuscule even.”

 

If anything, the grin on Graves’s face only widened. “Minuscule? Well, I didn’t think there would be any chance at all. You make me feel quite hopeful, Mr Scamander.”

 

There should be a spell, Newt reflected miserably as he fought down another blush, which purpose was to limit the number of times a person was allowed to suffer from an attack of embarrassment per day. Thankfully, Graves seemed to notice his discomfort and quickly backtracked, “Sorry, I did promise you to tone down the teasing. Is there anything else we should talk about?”

 

This time, Newt recovered quickly enough to seize the invitation. “Actually,” he cleared his throat, “can I talk to you about your Beast division? Or subdivision. Or whatever you call it here.”

 

“What about it?”

 

“It’s not right,” he blurted out. “Your law to kill every magical beast on sight. It’s barbaric. And inhuman.”

 

“Is it?”

 

The change in Graves was nothing short of palpable. His posture stiffened and the way he held himself was different, deliberate instead of relaxed. The smile was no longer a smile and this, more than anything else, told Newt that it was now the Director of Magical Security sitting in front of him

 

“I wasn’t aware that we were talking about humans,” Graves replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Didn’t you say _Beast_ division?” 

 

Newt gaped. He couldn’t remember the last time he had gone from awkward and desperate to overwhelmingly angry in less than a heartbeat.

 

“ _That_ ’s your defence? Because we aren’t talking about humans?”

 

“You must admit we can’t exactly put them on the same level.”

 

“The same– that isn’t the point at all!”

 

Graves shrugged. “Do you know the reason why we have that ‘barbaric’ law in the first place?”

 

Newt frowned. “The Rappaport’s Law–”

 

“That was only the beginning,” the Director cut him short. “Since 1790, the Rappaport’s Law has enforced total segregation between us and No-Majs, but it wasn’t until in the 1850s that the additional creature law, the one you call barbaric and inhuman, was implemented. Tell me, Mr Scamander, would you consider puffskeins to be dangerous?”

 

“Of course not,” Newt replied belligerently despite the sinking feeling in his stomach.

 

“Then you’ll be surprised to learn that a puffskein caused the death of twenty-six wizards and witches in 1858,” Graves replied flatly. “There used to be a wizarding village near Ipswich—a peaceful little village, population some two hundreds. Completely Unplottable after what’s known as the Salem witch trials. By then, Rappaport’s Law had already been in effect. There were very few interactions between wizardkinds and No-Majs, but that didn’t mean that the Scourers stopped looking for us. They’ve always had ways to sense magic. But it wasn’t until a pet puffskein escaped and made its merry way to the No-Maj town that they had a definite clue. They found the village. Twenty-six died in the massacre, including seven children. All because of a Puffskein.”

 

Newt discovered that he couldn’t move, his body frozen in horror. Graves continued ruthlessly. “And of course the tragedy didn’t stop there. We could Obliviate the No-Majs but our own people did _not_ forget. It’s only a matter of time before some of them decided to take justice in their own hand. They hit the town of Ipswich, hunting the Scourers. Seventy-three No-Majs died as the result. The murderers were soon apprehended and dealt with accordingly, but it took MACUSA decades to put the fire out, and even then, not entirely. That hatred still lingers until now.” He paused, nailing Newt with his gaze. “And that is why the law exists. Magical beasts are a threat to our community.”

 

It took Newt a while to finds his voice. “But not every beast is a threat,” he finally said, hating how weak he sounded. “Even the ones we call dangerous are only trying to survive.”

 

“Going by that definition, so are we, Mr Scamander,” Graves pointed out, still with the same stony voice. “We are only trying to survive, even if it means sacrificing other creatures.”

 

“But there are other ways. If humans are so superior, then isn’t it their duty to be _better_?”

 

Graves’s expression didn’t change, but Newt imagined seeing a flicker of something in his expression. He pressed on. “The law serves to protect the wizarding community, and it’s only right that it does. But magical beasts are part of that community too. Don’t we use unicorn hairs and horned serpent horns as wand cores? What about potion ingredients? And what about their rights to live simply because they are living, breathing beings?”

 

Graves said nothing for a long time. Newt realised that he was trembling and he dug his nails so hard into his palms to make it stop. A big part of him wanted very much to end this conversation and flee. Go back to what he always did, lurking on the fringes, working in the shadows.

 

“I’m listening.”

 

Newt whipped his head up so fast, half in hope, half in disbelief. “I– what?”

 

“Please continue,” Graves told him solemnly. “I’m listening.”

 

“Oh. Well. In that case.” Newt swallowed, still reeling from amazement. “There are ways, as I said. You can educate your Aurors, for one. The kill on sight policy is not only cruel but also unnecessary, if one only knows what to do. A seminar or a… a special class. And you really should consider having a proper Beast division if your concern is with secrecy. I assure you, there are people who will be interested in the job. They can deal with the emergencies—in the correct way. They also can keep an eye on the hunting grounds, track the migrations, like… here, I’ve charted a few maps–”

 

“Slow down.” Now Graves was smiling, clearly in amusement, and Newt felt another wave of mortification. Not that he wasn’t used to this kind of reaction. For years, he had dealt with the amused indulgence on everyone’s face, even his family’s—the way they humoured him, the way they shook their heads, pitying him for caring so much about these small, useless things instead of aiming for greatness like his brother. He sat, biting his lips, and let the shame wash over him in silence. It would pass; it always did.

 

“Alright, you mentioned a division specifically for magical beasts,” Graves suddenly spoke again. Newt glanced at him in surprise. The Director wore an intent look on his face, and to his left, a quill and a stack of paper were floating expectantly. “What does that entail?”

 

Newt stared at him in doubt. “You… you really want to know?”

 

Graves raised an eyebrow. “Weren’t you about to tell me?”

 

Still in a daze, Newt explained as clearly as he could. He had the arguments lined up, from those days when he had still actively tried to change the way wizarding governments around the world treated magical beasts. The most convincing arguments, he knew, were ones that underlined the benefits it would bring the wizarding community. And there were plenty, as reluctant as he was to exploit this side of the issue. Safer, more controlled modes of harvest was only the beginning. And then there was the wider impact on prices, not to mention, the smuggling operations and black markets.

 

“You have a very large country,” he continued, warming on his theme. “With many vast open spaces. Building a reservation or two will not be too difficult. There is the impact on the ecosystem too, but that’s a discussion for another day. Not that many people care about it. Also, what I said about prices? A regular wizarding family in America with two children has to come up with an enormous sum only to provide them with their first wands. Because the price of a wand is so expensive here. Because ingredients are hard to come by. Some of them will probably turn to the black market, but most black market wands are not only subpar but also dangerous. Many are carelessly made, without considering the safety of the wielder.”

 

Newt paused to take a deep breath. “Mr Graves, I understand that the law exists for a reason. But. If we can try and be better, then why not try and _be_ better?

 

Graves did not respond for some time. Newt sat anxiously in silence, wishing that he could read the man even just a little.

 

“You have given me a great deal to think about, Mr Scamander,” Graves finally said, noncommittal to the last degree.

 

Newt pushed a surge of annoyance down and only muttered, “I hope you really mean that.”

 

“I never say things I don’t mean.”

 

This time, Newt found himself looking away. He had a feeling that the other man wasn’t talking only about his suggestions—and he wasn’t sure what to feel about that.

 

“I was wondering–”

 

A train of knocks at the door stalled the rest of Graves’s words. The man closed his eyes for a second, sighing deeply before calling out, “Come in.”

 

Tina stumbled in, looking distraught, hair in complete disarray.

 

“Sir, there is another victim.”

 

_**End Chapter 4** _

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter this time, almost as long as all the previous ones combined OTL 
> 
> It's also pretty grim, dealing mostly with the case, but there are some developments re: their relationship. Even got to squeeze in a few kinks ;)

The new victim was a Muggle.

 

A fact that made just about everything a hundred times worse. Newt could sense it in the way the Aurors huddled together, as if bracing for an attack. They were alert and tense, trading few words with each other as they spread themselves along the docks and slowly combed the area. The fog, rising thick from the river, was both a curse and a blessing. Everything felt cold and damp and the limited visibility rendered any search difficult—not even _Lumos Maxima_ made much difference—but at least it also gave them a degree of protection from any curious Muggle.

 

Newt had finished his preliminary examination earlier and was now standing some distance away from the body, watching two Aurors work with spells to preserve the scene. Graves, stern-faced and grim, was interrogating the traumatised pair who had found the body with Tina and O’Connell.

 

One of them looked barely out of his teens.

 

Newt was only half-listening. His focus was on their surroundings. Usually he could sense the presence of a magical creature—they left a signature, a trace of magic, wherever they went—but the fog, as well as his own state of mind, made it extremely difficult to perceive anything subtle.

 

Still, if there had been any lingering doubt on what had caused the deaths, then it would have been gone by now. The bite wound was too similar to be anything else. It was a quintaped.

 

Newt sighed. The Americans were already prejudiced against magical creatures. After this, it would be even more difficult to convince them to revisit their laws.

 

“Scamander.”

 

He jumped at the touch to his elbow. Newt almost pulled away, but then realised that it was Graves, his face creased in concern.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yes, I was just...” He nodded vaguely at their murky environment. “The fog.”

 

Graves frowned. “You think the creature may still be around?”

 

“I can’t sense anything.” Newt squinted at the patches of blackness and half-seen shadows; was it always this misty around here? “It might be due to the fog, but most likely the creature is no longer in the area.”

 

“You can _sense_ it?” Graves sounded astonished, and perhaps a little impressed. Newt ducked his head to avoid blushing at a thoroughly inappropriate moment. Graves’s hand was still on his elbow, light enough not to be intrusive but certainly there. For once, he was oddly grateful for the contact.

 

“In a way. Everything with magic leaves a trace—like dogs or cats shedding fur. Wizards are no exception if they happen to use their magic, but for magical beasts, it’s automatic. Also, the larger they are, the stronger the impression. There’s actually a useful spell to detect this so-called trace, but with so many wizards around, it will be impossible to get an accurate result.”

 

The way Graves looked at him made heat rush to his face. “You should teach a class,” the man told him seriously. “For my Aurors.”

 

“Well, you should have a Beast Division,” Newt had blurted out before he could stop it. “For a lot of reasons. Besides, someone used to magical creatures will be able to perform the spell better.”

 

“You do argue a strong case.” There was a wry smile on Graves’s face. Newt was surprised to notice how pleased he was to see that smile.

 

“There’s nothing more we can do until daylight,” Graves continued with a sigh and finally pulled his hand away (to Newt’s disappointment). “You should go home and rest. And maybe drop by again later if you want to have another look around. Just in case.”

 

“What about you?” Newt asked timidly. It was almost two in the morning and the temperature had been steadily plummeting. Everything felt cold and clammy, even the inside of his coat. There was nothing Newt wanted more than his dry, warm bed, but he doubted that Graves or his Aurors would see theirs anytime soon.

 

“Still plenty to do,” Graves replied, rolling his shoulders. “At the very least, we must set up wards and secure the area until we have enough light to process the scene properly.”

 

“What will happen then?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Newt glanced at the body. “He’s a Muggle. No-Maj.”

 

Graves heaved a deep sigh. “Plenty of headaches, definitely. Chaos, if we are not careful. Once Congress finds out that a No-Maj is dead, there will be hell. Honestly, at this point the biggest risk is not another murder, but exposure of the entire wizarding world. We’ve been very lucky so far. We’ve always discovered the victims first, but there’s no guarantee that the No-Majs won’t next time.”

 

Newt made no reply. Helplessness simmered hot like anger in the pit of his stomach. For a moment, he almost wished that he had not been involved. The deaths were not widely publicised, but he would have heard about it sooner or later. There had been every chance that he could deal with the quintaped alone, quietly and without much fuss. The American wizarding community didn’t need to know.

 

“In any case, there’s nothing else we can do now,” Graves spoke again, his voice low and soothing. It was, Newt noted vaguely, the voice of someone talking to an agitated animal. Interesting. Perhaps there were indeed similarities between dealing with humans and beasts.

 

“Yes,” Newt murmured, looking around. “I better–”

 

A blood-curling scream shattered the night’s silence.

 

Newt did not realise what it was, not at first. When he did, Graves had already run ahead, toward the source of the sound. Newt followed a moment later. He stumbled past a couple of frozen Aurors, grip tight around the handle of his suitcase as fear and anxiety bubbled up in his chest. The scream continued, full of terror.

 

Then a second scream joined the first. Deeper. Heavier. A man’s.

 

A sudden burst of magic erupted. Newt gasped, knocking into O’Connell’s shoulder, knees nearly giving way under the lashing pressure. The screaming voices had disappeared abruptly, and he looked up just in time to see two figures crumpling to the ground. Muggles, he realised.

 

It took him a moment to recognise that it was Graves’s doing. It was Graves’s magic that engulfed the place, raising a magical barrier and keeping the two Muggles unconscious. The man was tense, frowning, both hands splayed in front of him, heavy with magic.

 

“There’s something in the water,” he said in a low voice.

 

Almost immediately, everyone raised their wand, pointed at the dark spread of water. Newt reached into his coat for a small flask of firewhisky—just in case—and handed it to Tina. Comprehension dawned in her face.

 

“Sir–”

 

“Stay back, all of you,” Graves ordered, his tone brooking no argument. Tina froze. Not one of them thought of disobeying.

 

The Director’s magic stirred again, a slow, steady push. No one spoke, the slap and rush of the waves filling the silence. In the distance, a foghorn sounded, a heavy, forlorn echo. Newt held his breath. His mind grappled with calculations—distance, mass and volume versus the length and breadth of the mouth of his case. And he should have prepared a space for the quintaped beforehand, perhaps a rocky platform surrounded by water. Too late. The temporary quarantine area would have to do for now.

 

Except nothing happened.

 

“It’s not the creature,” Graves said at last. Newt felt a collective sigh of relief sweeping the whole group. Wands withdrew. Shoulders slumped.

 

It did not last long.

 

Someone gasped as the dark, heavy mass of a human body was lifted out of the water. Another push of magic carried it afloat, drenched clothes dripping on stone pavement. They watched, agape, silence thickening into something nigh unbearable. Only the sure presence of Graves’s magic held the horror at bay.

 

Slowly, the body settled on the ground, facing up. Newt pushed forward, falling to his knees next to a limp hand. Male. Black. Around forty. Definitely a wizard. A large, gaping wound on the side of his torso. A chunk of his flesh was missing.

 

A wave of helplessness washed over Newt. He swallowed, and then slowly raised his head.

 

“It’s another victim.”

 

His eyes met Graves’s for a second. Then the older man looked around, quickly rapping out orders.

 

“Scherz, make sure the barrier holds and add a Repelling Charm. O'Connell, Goldstein, it’s your case. Get to it. Hambleton, you’re the examiner in charge, so help them. Everyone else step back, divide yourself into pairs, and comb the parameter. Cavallone, take the No-Majs away and Obliviate–”

 

“Wait,” Newt quickly rose to his feet. “We should question them first.”

 

“They’re No-Majs,” Graves said flatly.

 

“It’s possible that they saw something. Right now any information might be useful.”

 

“You said the creature was no longer in the area.”

 

“I don’t think it was. Is. But all the same, we better make sure.”

 

Graves did not reply at once. His eyes were hard, assessing, not a trace of the man who had bantered with him earlier. It showed Newt just what kind of deep-rooted dogma the Rappaport’s Law had become to every American wizard. He had to force himself not to look away first.

 

“Five minutes,” the Director finally said.

 

Exhaling in relief, Newt nodded and followed Auror Cavallone to the other end of the docks. The tall, short-haired woman held her wand steady, easily levitating the two unconscious Muggles in front of her and depositing them carefully after some distance away. She moved with the sort of certainty and efficiency that reminded him of Graves.

 

“Ready?” she asked after creating a secure barrier around them.

 

“Wait.” Newt rummaged inside his coat to find a useful little thing he had acquired some time ago, when he was still travelling Europe. “This will probably help.”

 

Auror Cavallone’s eyes widened when he took out a small pistol. “Is that a… gun?”

 

“Do you know how it works?”

 

A hint of evasion came to her eyes, but she settled for a neutral answer. “I’ve been shown how.”

 

“Excellent. Will you take it, please?”

 

She recoiled slightly at the offer. “But I’ve never actually _used_ it. I really can’t say about my aim.”

 

“You don’t have to actually use it,” Newt reasoned. “Just hold it and point this end at them. Muggles don’t really appreciate how dangerous wands can be, but they will recognise this all right. We want them to cooperate with as little fuss as possible, don’t we?”

 

Auror Cavallone was now staring at him, her expression unreadable. “Is this always your method in dealing with No-Majs?”

 

“Of course not,” Newt answered hastily. “Only when the situation calls for it, and that very rarely. It’s just that humans and beasts are quite similar in certain aspects. Treat them firmly, allow them not even a split second to start doubting, and it’s likely that they will do what you want.”

 

“I see.” Heaving a deep breath, she slowly—and rather gingerly—took the offered weapon. “I didn’t believe it at first, but now I understand why.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Why the Director has fallen for you.”

 

Newt sputtered. “Surely _that_ is irrelevant to– I’m not sure if it’s an appropriate topic for discussion right now–”

 

She smirked at him. “Ready when you are, Mr Scamander.”

 

Twenty minutes and a lot of hysterics later—even with the pistol’s aid, and Newt had practically exhausted every method to calm beasts, magical or not, that he had ever learned—he finally got some answers. None, however, was particularly helpful.

 

“Nothing,” he answered Graves’s questioning look. “They only noticed a really horrible stench before they saw the body. It’s consistent with the quintaped theory, being a carnivore and all, but of course it could also be something completely harmless like rotten fish. Considering where we are.”

 

“There might be another explanation,” Graves told him. “For this body, at least. Goldstein knew him.”

 

Tina was sitting on an overturned barrell, her face pale and strained. She almost started at the sound of her name. “What?”

 

“You said you knew the victim.”

 

“Oh.” She pulled herself together with visible effort. “Yes. After a fashion. His name was Colt, or at least that’s what everyone called him. I caught him trying to smuggle in Phoenix feathers—although they weren’t Phoenix feathers at all. Cheap imitations to dupe gullible buyers. He tried to bargain, saying that he knew things. And, to my surprise, he actually did. Mostly just street rumours and hearsays, but those could be useful.”

 

“When did you last see him?”

 

“I’m not sure. Six months ago, at least. I was fishing around for the Tanner case, but he couldn’t give me anything useful then.”

 

“And you have no idea what he was doing lately?” Graves pressed on.

 

She shook her head. “Nothing specific. He’s the sort who likes to have fingers in as many pies as possible, but he’s very careful. Never got in too deep.”

 

“Looks like he did this once.” Graves was frowning at the body, which was now being examined by a team of Examiners. “Is it possible that he was up to something dangerous?”

 

A short laugh left Tina’s mouth. “Colt is _always_ up to something dangerous. That’s how he knows so much.” Her face twisted into something brittle, pained. “Knew.”

 

“Alright, we’ll take the body back to the morgue. Both bodies.” He looked at Newt. “You can do your examination there later.”

 

Newt only nodded, a lump in his throat. Just as he turned around, he noticed Graves giving Tina’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

 

 

-

 

 

The day dawned grey and cloudy.

 

Or so Newt was told when Tina stopped by at the morgue. He had been stuck inside for hours, observing the autopsy with Head Examiner Hambleton at the helm. The entire process was an endless spell of nightmare, and he would have sunk into even more miserable gloom if not for his company. Hambleton, a gentle, mild-mannered man with a keen eye for detail, was cheerful and matter-of-fact enough to keep the worst horrors at bay. Still, Newt was boundlessly relieved when Tina decided to pluck him out of the place for a little breakfast.

 

The building’s only restaurant was moderately busy even at that early hour. They found an empty table near the windows and Newt let the sound of chatters and clinks of cutleries wash over him as he slumped in his chair, exhaustion catching up fast. Tina ordered a full breakfast for herself, but Newt could not stand even the idea of scrambled eggs, let alone any kind of meat. He went with the safest options available—jam and toast and a cup of tea that did not really taste like tea but at least hot enough to warm his hands and stomach.

 

Tina cleaned her plate in count of minutes, barely noticing what she ate. Newt nibbled on his toast until a pointed look from her forced him to finish one slice at least.

 

“You look exhausted,” she said clinically, frowning at him.

 

“So do you.” Newt glanced at the tired shadows on her face. “Are you all right?”

 

“Yes, of– oh, you mean about Colt?” She offered him a strained smile. “Thank you, but I’m fine, really. I didn’t know him that well anyway. It’s just, I suppose the shock _is_ greater when it’s someone you knew. From before. But yeah, the rest is the same hard work as always.”

 

“Except in this case you’re in charge.”

 

Tina took a sip from her cup of coffee and sighed. “That’s true. It’s always worse when you’re in charge, especially in a case like this where bodies seem to keep dropping like flies.”

 

“You and Auror O’Connell must be getting a lot of pressure.”

 

“Nothing compared to the boss, believe me,” she said wryly. “In any case, I much prefer plodding through tons of fieldwork to dealing with all that political hooey.”

 

He nodded. “My brother always complains about that side of the job too.”

 

“He’s coming here next week, isn’t he? We definitely have to wrap this case up before then.”

 

“It’s not like he’s going to mock you if you don’t,” Newt muttered, feeling a bit defensive. To his surprise, Tina grinned at him.

 

“You don’t know much about the relationship between British and American Aurors, do you, Newt?” She laughed, but there was no malice in it. “How did that go, by the way? When your brother found out that you were dating our Director?”

 

Even in the grip of exhaustion, Newt could feel his face heating up—either from embarrassment or discomfort at that little bit of untruth. Dating, indeed.

 

“It was a disaster,” he finally said in a tiny voice. Technically, it was not even a lie. Theseus’s reaction had been consistently less than pleased (thoroughly an understatement), and if Newt knew his brother at all, it certainly would not change in the near future.

 

Tina was positively smirking now. “I bet.”

 

“But h-how did you know that we’re…?”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Sort of obvious to anyone with eyes. Although Mr Graves did mention something to that effect in our briefing earlier. Also sort of hinted that anyone who dared give you grief would suffer a fate more horrendous than their worst nightmare could’ve conjured. The message got through very clearly, believe me.”

 

Newt looked down, flustered, flattered, and completely, massively uncomfortable all at once. “That sounds a bit much.”

 

Tina shook her head. “Nah, he’s always had a protective streak a mile wide. Only makes sense that you get the bulk of it.” She spent the next half an hour telling him about Auror O’Connell, a disastrous mission, and a slain dark wizard whose very dangerous and very angry wife had decided to seek vengeance with the fury of a thousand rampaging Basilisks. Newt listened in rapt attention as she described in great detail everything Graves had done in order to protect his Auror, from both outside threat and inside pressure. The tale culminated in a midnight ambush which he himself had organised and led to capture the vengeful—and by then, hysterical, not to mention _desperate_ —witch. To everyone’s relief, it had ended successfully, with no casualty greater than the most minor injuries.

 

“An extraordinary man, your Mr Graves,” she concluded with a satisfied nod. If Newt had still entertained any lingering doubt about the extraordinary quality of his supposed beloved, he would have been thoroughly convinced by now.

 

Tina went back to the Auror Headquarters afterwards. Newt used the chance to return to his rented room, this time carefully following the strict Apparition rules from one point to another. The overcast sky had yielded to a light drizzle when he finally arrived, exhausted and in dire need of the familiar company of his creatures.

 

The flurry of noises—chirps, squeaks, hisses, bellows, roars—that greeted his arrival was both reassuring and endearing. Everyone was either extremely happy to see him or extremely irritated by his prolonged absence. Pickett immediately reclaimed his throne on Newt’s shoulder and proceeded to tell him off using the most colourful language, all the way slapping his cheek none-too-gently. Niff stole everything he could steal from Newt’s many pockets, probably in the misguided belief that it would prevent him from leaving again so soon. Dougal chose to stare at him reproachfully from his perch, but the mooncalves crowded around him for attention. Even Prudence the Nundu deigned to come down from her rock to growl at him, instantly sending every other creature into hiding.

 

Newt did his rounds slowly, careful to give each and everyone some extra attention. (Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, the giant Runespoor, were particularly demanding). It was a few hours later before he could finally crash in his cot and sleep the morning through.

 

The afternoon was already waning when Newt finally emerged from the suitcase. To his surprise, there was a note waiting for him on the table, from the Head Examiner.

 

_Come at once. Found evidence of a possible second creature._

 

Newt reread the message five times, incredulity slowly giving way to alarm. He could feel his heartbeat speed up as countless terrible speculations fought to overwhelm each other in his head. To have not one, but _two_ magical beasts responsible for the killings could only mean more disaster. Without further delay, he grabbed his case and set out for MACUSA.

 

Auror O’Connell was already there in the morgue when Newt arrived, deep in argument. He whirled around and pointed an accusing finger at Examiner Hambleton.

 

“This lunatic said that we were dealing with _two_ creatures.”

 

Hambleton, fortunately, did not look at all offended. “And said lunatic has a perfectly reasonable explanation for suggesting such a thing,” he said matter-of-factly before turning his attention to Newt. “I’m glad you got my note, Mr Scamander. Will you take a look at this?”

 

Stamping down his instinctive reluctance, Newt approached the autopsy tables, where the two latest victims were laid down. The Muggle was the one nearer to the door. Even from paces away, he could see that the flesh and some of the organs in the lower torso had turned purplish blue.

 

“This didn’t happen to the earlier victims, did it?” was his first question.

 

“No,” Hambleton replied firmly, waving to the back room. “They’re over there, and one of my assistants is doing a thorough examination right now just to make sure—but no. Certainly not like this.”

 

“Are you thinking poison? Or some kind of contamination?”

 

“I wasn’t sure until I found this.” Hambleton pointed at a tiny, near-invisible mark on the small intestine. “Does that look like a snake bite to you?”

 

Newt squinted at the mark. “Yes, that’s a snake bite. Quite small, so probably an average-sized specimen.” He glanced at the other body, the black wizard. Colt. “What about him?”

 

“Somewhat more difficult to determine, mostly because he had been in the water, but there was the same kind of flesh discoloration at roughly the same area. A similar bite mark too, although at a different section of the intestines. I know very little about snakes, but I think it’s safe to assume that both marks came from the same creature. Coincidence, do you think?”

 

Newt frowned. “A very remarkable coincidence.”

 

“Wait.” Auror O’Connell broke his silence. “Are you saying that the snake, or whatever it was, could be an accident? That maybe it just happened to be there and, for one reason or other, bite them?”

 

“I would if only _one_ of them was bitten. But the fact that they both were—one a wizard and the other a No-Maj, one found in the water and the other on dry land—it’s just too much for a coincidence. It doesn’t make sense. And why don’t the first two victims show any symptom like this?”

 

“Precisely.” Hambleton glanced pointedly at O’Connell. “Hence at least two different creatures.”

 

O’Connell’s jaw dropped in horror. “At _least_?”

 

“Have you extracted the venom yet?” Newt asked the Head Examiner.

 

“Yes. And sent a sample to a friend of mine who’s an expert in these things. The substance _is_ in the blood, which also means that it was introduced into the bloodstream while the victims were still alive. However, until we know what kind of venom that is and its effects on the human body, we cannot determine its impact on the cause of death.”

 

“Can I ask a stupid question?” O’Connell interrupted, turning toward Newt. “Is it possible that these creatures, these quintapeds, is it possible that they are venomous?”

 

Newt smiled weakly. “It’s not a stupid question. But the answer is no. Quintapeds are not venomous. There has never been evidence as such.”

 

“Absence of evidence doesn’t equal absence of the thing itself.”

 

“True, but in this case of what-if, there is another factor against it—the sufficiency law that governs the natural world. Every creature, big or small, has their own, let’s just say, ‘weapon’, in order to survive. One has speed, another has strength and body mass. Yet another has venom to paralyse their prey or the ability to vanish like Demiguises. These so-called weapons allow each species to survive in different ways, but not a single one has them _all_. There is nothing superfluous in the natural world—that’s how it maintains its balance. In the quintapeds’ case, they have their sharp teeth, they have their powerful jaws, and they have their substantial size. All these combined are more than sufficient. What use do they have for another weapon, such as venom, in their arsenal?”

 

“A Basilisk has all that and is venomous to boot.”

 

“Yes,” Newt said grimly. “Because a Basilisk is not one of nature’s children. It’s the work of human mischief. Dark wizards who wish for a great weapon at their beck and call. Besides, what about the snake bite found on both victims? It’s far more likely that this is the explanation for the venom in their body.”

 

“So basically now we have two dangerous creatures at large?”

 

“It’s the coincidence factor that bothers me.” Newt bit his lips, staring at the two bodies. “Actually… maybe there is something we can try.”

 

The idea was simple enough—and in all honesty, should have occurred to him earlier, when they had first found the bodies. Newt had once learned a spell during his travel in New Guinea, normally used to compare tracks of wild animals. In this case, it would allow him to take an impression of each victim’s wound in the shape of floating images that glowed greenish white, and then compare the four results.

 

The conclusion, to his distress, was exactly as he had feared.

 

“Mercy Lewis,” Hambleton murmured, sounding just as stricken. “They’re different.”

 

“What do you mean?” O’Connell said sharply.

 

“Look. The wounds from the first two victims are practically identical, ergo the same creature inflicted those wounds. The latter two, however, are markedly different from the first. Similar enough that we didn’t suspect anything immediately, but when compared side by side like this, there are obvious points of variations. Which means that victims 3 and 4 were not attacked by the same creature that attacked 1 and 2. These wounds came from different creatures. Same species, but different creatures.”

 

“Are you saying that we’re facing two different quintapeds? _Three_ different creatures if we count the hypothetical snake?” O’Connell looked aghast. “Come on, that’s impossible! These wounds, they all look the same to me!”

 

Hambleton looked at Newt, who shook his head. “But they’re not. It’s just like human teeth. They all look the same at a glance—same number, same formation, same basic shapes, the same blueprint if you like—but each person has his or her own unique set of teeth. Even allowing for other factors like variations of strength during contact, or the reaction of the victim that might affect the shape of the wound, the most recent two here,” he waved his wand to separate the four images into two groups, “are too different from the first two.”

 

Cursing to himself, Auror O’Connell soon departed to report the new finding.

 

 

–

 

 

Night had fallen by the time Newt made his way down to the docks at Brooklyn Heights. After spending hours in the morgue to conduct more tests and observations, the cool, fresh air was nothing short of divine. There was a hint of rain in the air and bolts of lightning could be seen splitting the sky from time to time, but at least the fog had yet to descend.

 

The place was teeming with Aurors. Most gathered in groups, talking among themselves and looking rather conspicuous in their uniform coats. Fortunately Muggles were now actively avoiding the area, courtesy of a strong Repellent Charm; otherwise, the noise and activity would have drawn even the least curious of them.

 

Newt kept his head down as he made his way slowly, glancing around for a familiar face. He found Tina in the middle of a large group, talking to Auror Scherz, a short, stocky man of about thirty with a boyish smile. She looked up at his approach and smiled rather helplessly.

 

“I swear this is like a picnic,” she told him, raising her voice above the din.

 

Newt tried to match her volume. “I didn’t know there were so many Aurors in MACUSA.”

 

“Mr Graves wants everyone with an Auror badge to spend at least a few working hours on this case every day, no exception. There will be shifts later, of course, but we do need the manpower to cover everything. This is a pretty big area, with lots of buildings and alleyways.”

 

Newt nodded. “That’s a good idea. Less people around too. I don’t think any creature with any hint of self-preservation will dare to show themselves in front of these many wizards.”

 

It made her laugh. “The fact that _that_ isn’t a good thing is not even the most messed-up part about this whole business.”

 

“Alright, people.” Auror O'Connell’s voice suddenly boomed above the noisy chatters. The man himself had climbed on top of a stack of crates to get everybody’s attention, undaunted by the rain which had begun to fall. “Now that you know more or less what happened and where it happened, we’re going to start in exactly fifteen minutes. Those lucky enough to be chosen for tonight’s patrol, report to Auror Goldstein and me after this. I’ll put up a copy of the schedule here and in the office, so there’s no excuse.”

 

“Some of us barely have enough time for our own case,” a disgruntled voice came from the crowd.

 

“We _all_ are working on a case, Munson. But as decreed by the powers that be, this one takes precedence until we catch the culprit. If you have any complaints, I’ll be very happy to forward them.”

 

“Don’t bother,” Auror Munson muttered.

 

“If there’s no further interruption, let me introduce you to your new best friend.” A wave from O’Connell’s wand summoned a box full of clinking vials. “As I said in the briefing, we’re looking for a quintaped, a powerful magical beast resistant to everything except perhaps the strongest spells—and these little beauties. Firewhisky. It’s probably your only chance against this creature, especially in small numbers. You will get one each, so use it wisely and don’t, I repeat, _don’t_ drink it. Not even a sip. If I find out, then the Director finds out. And if the Director finds out, he’s going to fry your ass faster than you can even start begging. So, children, don’t even try.”

 

There were a scatter of laughs, but most Aurors knew enough to take the warning seriously. The vials were distributed. Tina took one when O’Connell came over, the box almost empty.

 

“Happy hunting to us,” she declared grimly, raising her vial.

 

“Only one?” Newt said hesitantly. “Won’t two smaller vials work better in this case? You can just toss one at each if they happen to appear at the same time.”

 

“ _Each_?”

 

“They?” Auror Scherz demanded, turning sharply. “What do you mean _they_?”

 

Newt glanced at Auror O’Connell, surprised. “You haven’t told them?”

 

For once, the always confident man looked like he was wishing to be anywhere else but here, trapped in this conversation. “The boss disagreed,” he finally said, sounding extremely uncomfortable. “He just didn’t think it was at all likely that there were two, let alone three, magical creatures on the loose, prowling and targeting people in the same area.”

 

“ _Three_?” Tina’s voice was gaining in volume and intensity.

 

“They’re _not_ prowling and targeting people,” Newt muttered, getting a bit annoyed.

 

O’Connell raised his hands defensively. “Feel free to take it up to him.”

 

Newt gritted his teeth and nodded stiffly. Not that this was in any way an unfamiliar experience. His words had been dismissed way too often for him not to develop certain immunity to snubs and slights, gentle or otherwise. He would have let this one go as well if not for the fact that there were literally lives at stake.

 

He arrived back at MACUSA in five minutes, dripping wet. The place was almost deserted at that time of night. Newt made his way quickly through the front staircase and empty atrium, directly to the Law Enforcement floor.

 

The door to Graves’s office was standing slightly ajar, allowing only the barest glimpse into the silent office. For a moment, Newt stood undecided, daunted by the thought of imminent confrontation. It was the various catastrophic possibilities which might follow an unprepared encounter that finally convinced him to push the door open.

 

Any prepared speech or protest was momentarily forgotten as soon as he walked into the room. Graves was there in the room—to be precise, in the couch, _asleep_.

 

Newt had barely processed this unexpected turn of events when something invisible seized him by the throat and pushed him against the nearest wall. Pain exploded in the back of his head and tears sprang in his eyes. For a moment, it felt like his head had been split open and all air punched out of his lungs. He cried out, or at least tried to, except the pressure around his throat had only increased, choking him and cutting his air flow. He couldn’t breathe. In panic, Newt reached blindly inside his right sleeve, only to realise that he had left Beatrice inside the case earlier.

 

Then, as quickly as it had come, the pressure disappeared. Newt was left on the floor, leaning against the wall wheezing and coughing. He was only dimly aware of a voice calling his name—first Scamander, and then Newton, except no one really called him Newton save for his father. Who was long gone. And maybe Professor Dumbledore. Neither choice seemed at all likely at the moment. Unless, of course, he had been strangled to death earlier…

 

“Newton!”

 

Something in that voice dragged him back to reality. He still couldn’t stopped wheezing and coughing. His throat hurt, his chest hurt, and it felt like a hammer was relentlessly pounding in his head.

 

“Mr Scamander? Newton?”

 

Someone was kneeling by his side, rubbing his back and speaking softly but urgently. Newt tried to blink the tears out of his eyes.

 

“Mr Graves,” he rasped, only to be overwhelmed by another wave of coughing.

 

“Shit. Don’t talk. Don’t move. Let me.”

 

Newt pressed his eyes shut as deft fingers worked quickly, loosening his tie and collar. When those same fingers touched his neck, he almost recoiled, but the cool sensation that followed felt too good, seeping into his skin and soothing the pain away. He sighed in appreciation and leaned into the gentle touch.

 

“Do you need to see a Healer?” Graves asked, his tone worried.

 

Newt was still too busy trying to breathe normally to attempt a verbal answer, so he only shook his head. Unsurprisingly, it failed to convince the other man.

 

“Are you sure? You hit your head quite hard. And your neck...”

 

“It’s fine,” Newt muttered—and was glad when this third attempt did not end in another bout of violent coughing. In fact, he almost sounded like himself again, if a little weak.

 

“It’s _not_ fine.” Graves sounded angry. “I could have–”

 

“I’m fine,” Newt told him, this time a little stronger. Hesitantly, he touched the side of Graves’s hand and smiled. “Just… keep doing what you’re doing right now.”

 

Graves’s responding smile was a little incredulous, a little helpless, perhaps even a little fond, and Newt tried very hard to hide how the smile—and Graves’s proximity, and Graves’s hand on his neck, and Graves’s tousled, untidy hair, just everything Graves, really—was affecting his heart at the moment.

 

“I’m so sorry about this.” And now the man was apologising. And his thumb was stroking Newt’s neck, which was completely unfair. “I don’t usually… I guess you startled me, but I usually have better control than this. Why didn’t you knock?”

 

“My bad,” Newt admitted sheepishly, glad to have an excuse for the persistent blush on his face. “I was rather in a hurry. I had to… Merlin.” He almost cursed out loud when it all came back to him—his real reason for coming, the bodies, the bite marks, the discrepancies, the two instead of one.

 

“Please.” Newt sat up, fingers clenching around Graves’s wrist. “I must talk to you. There are more than one creatures here. I’m not exaggerating. I know you’ve heard about it from Auror O’Connell, but please let me explain for a minute. Quintapeds are not venomous, but the third and fourth victims show clear signs of being infected by some type of venom. And the bite marks, they just don’t–”

 

“Stop talking.”

 

Before Newt could open his mouth to protest, he already found himself hauled up and deposited in the sofa—quickly, efficiently, and with very minimal fuss. The _how_ , _when_ , and _why_ were a little fuzzy, however, and he could only stare, dumbfounded, as Graves rounded the table and took the other seat.

 

“Just sit quietly for a minute,” Graves told him, his voice brooking no argument. “Put your case down. Breathe in. Calm down. Then talk from the beginning.”

 

Newt obeyed. It was rather difficult _not_ to, especially after that tone of voice. Besides, he was glad for a chance to rearrange his thoughts in a more orderly fashion—which in itself was a difficult enough feat even without the other man staring at him. No matter how many times the occasion had repeated itself, to be the sole focus of those dark, intense eyes never failed to daunt him.

 

Graves was silent for some time after Newt had finished laying down his arguments

 

“So what you’re saying is, we are dealing with two different creatures instead of one.”

 

“At least two. The snake bite is a little confusing. Of course it could be just an extremely remarkable coincidence, but as I said, rather unlikely.”

 

“Alright.” Graves rubbed his face. “You’re the expert here, so let me ask you something. Yesterday you mentioned that many magical beasts in America had gone into hiding. My question is this: how likely is it that two or more of them are now prowling the harbour area of New York City and killing people?”

 

“They’re not ‘prowling’, and to answer your question, it’s not that likely, but–”

 

“So maybe it’s the same creature.”

 

“No, it’s not. I already told you why.”

 

“There may be other factors at play here,” Graves insisted. “You said venom, but what about purely accidental contamination?”

 

“As in exposed to harmful substances that spread through the water or some other way? I thought about that, but if such were the case, you would’ve heard about it by now. There would’ve been many more cases, not just these two. And certainly not only in conjunction with these quintaped attacks. And it still doesn’t explain the snake bites.”

 

“Alright, how about this. No one really knows much about these creatures, right? Perhaps quintapeds _are_ venomous. Perhaps they have certain mechanism—small extra fangs inside their mouth, or a stinger somewhere on their body—to deliver the venom. It’s just that no one knows about it.”

 

Newt felt the pounding ache in his head returning. “Quintapeds are not venomous,” he declared loudly.

 

“But how would you know for _sure_?”

 

“Mr Graves, I _have_ seen a quintaped. I know what their bite looks like and I know that they are not venomous.”

 

“Even so–”

 

Newt stood up abruptly and started peeling off his wet clothes. First jacket, then vest and shirt. His fingers kept slipping on the buttons and his face was burning, but he tried not to glance at Graves’s direction.

 

“What are you doing?” The Director sounded wary.

 

Newt did not answer until he was done. Then he turned slightly, showing the left side of his torso. “Please look at this,” he said quietly. “This is a bite from a quintaped.”

 

For a long moment, there was no response from the other man. Newt kept his eyes fixed on the glass cabinets lining the walls, shame curling in his chest. He felt uncomfortably vulnerable with his scars exposed. “This is why I was so sure,” he forced himself to continue. His voice sounded strange to his ears, too deep and too calm. “I managed to observe one of them in… quite close quarters, as it were.”

 

“Mercy Lewis,” Graves murmured, exhaling softly.

 

“But my point is there was really nothing that might suggest that quintapeds were venomous. No fang. No stinger. Just a great jaw that…” Newt paused, stomach suddenly twisting in painful knots. The memory had never bothered him before—that is, not _too_ much—but now he recoiled from it. In this neat, elegant office hundreds of thousands of kilometres away, he remembered _everything_.

 

“In any case,” Newt cleared his throat, pushing the thoughts away, “they have no such thing. The one I met in Bilbao might be a bit smaller, as you can see, but he was a full adult. The males are of course smaller than the females, but that doesn’t mean they’re any less fierce. He certainly wasn’t. And he had been kept in captivity for months, so yes, it was entirely my fault. I was too hasty.”

 

The light, unexpected touch on his skin, right above the jagged scars, nearly made him jump. “Don’t,” Newt gasped. “Please.”

 

Graves withdrew his hand at once. “Sorry.”

 

Newt shook his head but said nothing. He clutched his wet shirt to his chest and looked down—only to realise that he had brought a trail of water into the office.

 

“Oh.” Newt swallowed, misery and mortification competing for space inside his chest. “I’m so sorry about the mess. And your sofa, it’s–”

 

“Don’t worry about it. Here, wear my coat.” Something heavy settled around his shoulders. “Would you care for a hot shower? One of the house-elves can clean your clothes while you’re at it. They’re very quick and very efficient.”

 

“Oh no, please.” Newt was rather horrified at the idea that he might be such an imposition. Or get the gorgeous coat wet. “There’s no need. I can do it myself.”

 

“Allow me,” Graves insisted, quiet but firm. “Please.”

 

Newt bit his lips and relented. It was only then that he realised he had started shivering. Graves waved a hand, revealing an invisible door. It led into a small, spartan room that contained a single bed, a large bookcase, and an old chest. Another door, inconspicuous next to the chest, revealed a bathroom.

 

“Feel free to use anything you need,” Graves told him. “Just leave your things in the bathroom. The house-elves will see to them.”

 

Then he closed the door behind him and Newt was left alone.

 

The sudden absence of sounds was a surprise, a pleasant one. For a long moment, Newt only stood in the middle of the room, basking in the solitude. The silence engulfed him like a blanket. Slowly, tension drained out of him, and for the first time since he had come out of his case this afternoon, he felt at ease.

 

The bathroom was as neat and efficient as the man who owned the space. Newt undressed slowly but avoided looking into the mirror. He tried not to wonder what Graves might be thinking about his scars either.

 

The hot water felt divine on his chilled skin. Newt lingered in the shower as long as he could, until his conscience reminded him that it was not only wasteful but also disrespectful of the house-elves’ efforts. And Mr Graves was probably still waiting for him. He quickly stepped out of the shower—only to discover that all his wet clothes had disappeared.

 

Wrapping himself in the only available towel, Newt peered outside, the floor cold under his bare feet. The bedroom was empty. There was no sign of his clothes either. Instead, laid out neatly on the bed, was Graves’s coat.

 

There was a moment of panicked indecision as Newt stared at it, the only article of clothing left in the room. He spent a few more minutes debating himself on the advantages and disadvantages of accepting the offer—doubtless innocent enough, except his brain had to plague him with thoroughly inappropriate images at a thoroughly inappropriate time. Graves only meant to be kind. With a sigh, he reached for the coat, half admiring the beautiful cut and fine material. It was a little too large for him across the shoulders but settled comfortably enough around his frame, the silky lining brushing against his bare skin in a way that made him blush. And it smelled like Graves.

 

Newt quickly buttoned it up, shaking his head. His crush was really getting out of hand. He opened the door quietly, letting himself out—and promptly froze.

 

Graves was not alone. A black bald man was standing in front of him, obviously there to discuss some weighty matters or others. He turned at the sound of Newt’s entrance. And then gaped.

 

Newt would have slammed the door shut and hidden in the bedroom for the rest of his life had he been in command of his limbs. He was not. He could only stare dumbly, too shocked to attempt anything, until Graves’s severe voice cut through the terrible stand-off.

 

“What are you looking at, Simmons?”

 

The man hastily turned away. “Nothing, sir. Absolutely nothing. I… should I leave?”

 

“At once.”

 

Simmons wasted no time and fled.

 

“Sorry about that.” Graves rose from his chair. Too mortified, Newt could not even bring himself to look at him. “It’s an urgent report, and I didn’t think you would finish so quickly. Was the water alright?”

 

Newt nodded, still tongue-tied. He could only imagine the rumours that would run rampant through the halls of MACUSA tomorrow. That he had been seen coming out of the Director’s bedroom was one thing; his current choice of wardrobe was something else entirely.

 

“I hope you don’t mind the coat,” Graves said again, touching Newt’s arm gently. “Your clothes will be ready soon.”

 

It took Newt all his strength of will to raise his eyes and met Graves’s kind gaze. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered miserably. “I should’ve at least–”

 

“Don’t worry about it.” If anything, Graves looked amused. “In a way, it’s rather a good method to spread the rumour that we’re dating.”

 

Newt reddened even more. It did not help that Graves was still watching him with that same expression—as if what he saw pleased him greatly. His hand casually moved to adjust the coat’s lapels, lingering close enough to brush the ends of Newt’s curls.

 

“I never thought,” he began softly, but then paused, seeming to check himself. His lips quirked into a half smile and the rest of the unspoken words vanished. “Will you sit down while you wait?” he offered instead.

 

Newt blinked. “I– yes, of course. My case...”

 

“Over there.”

 

Graves led him toward the sofas, which had been moved near the fireplace. It was only then that Newt realised that the room had been tidied. The trail of water was gone and everything once more spotless. A small fire was burning cheerfully in the grate.

 

“Please, make yourself comfortable.”

 

Newt blushed again when he sat down. The way the coat caressed his body was almost indecent. He briefly considered the idea of popping down into his suitcase and grabbing some clothes, but that would also mean exposing the entire content of his case to the Director of Magical Security. Not exactly the best idea, under the circumstances.

 

Graves returned a moment later with a cup of cocoa, which Newt accepted with a small thanks. He took a sip. It was very good.

 

“I’ve told O’Connell and Goldstein that we’re dealing with more than one creature,” Graves told him, settling in the other couch with a cup of coffee. “They’ll adjust the search accordingly.”

 

“Oh.” Newt was surprised but pleased. “That’s… good. I mean, it’s always good if they can be more careful.” A rush of guilt shot through him as he imagined them hard at work under the rain outside. “I really should go back and join them. If they find something–”

 

“They’ll send a message and let you know,” Graves said decisively. “Besides, you’ll be easier to find if you stay here.”

 

Newt conceded the point, however reluctantly. He could feel a strange warmth that had very little to do with the cocoa spreading in his chest. He had almost forgotten how nice it felt to be trusted, to know that someone deemed his opinions worth listening to.

 

That this someone turned out to be a wizard as powerful and important as Percival Graves only made the entire thing more incredible. Newt shot a surreptitious glance at the older man. The low-burning fire cast a golden sheen to his features, making them look softer and warmer. However, it still couldn’t quite hide the lines the last few days had carved on his face. Newt felt a pang of pity.

 

“How was your day?” he heard himself ask quietly.

 

A mirthless smile appeared on Graves’s face. “Do you really need to ask?”

 

Newt bit his lips, fighting down another surge of guilt. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help much. But there are a number of magizoologists who are more knowledgeable than me in this subject and I’ve written to two of them in hope–”

 

“That wasn’t what I meant at all,” Graves interrupted him. “And you’ve helped a great deal, Mr Scamander. Honestly, without you we would still be wondering what could’ve caused these deaths.”

 

Newt looked down at his cocoa. “I just wish I could help more.”

 

“Don’t worry, I have a feeling that we’ll be depending on you a lot when the time comes,” Graves said wryly.

 

Newt managed a weak smile. “Were they very hard on you? The Congress?”

 

“It’s only to be expected.” The reply came with a shrug. “They– _we_ are all terrified. Four people are dead. At this rate, it’s just a matter of time before the No-Maj’s discover the existence of these creatures, so if we don’t contain them soon…” Graves sighed, leaving it at that.

 

“What about the Mug– No-Maj? Has his disappearance been noticed?”

 

“So far, not yet, which is fortunate. This confirmation comes from multiple credible sources, so we can rest easy for a little while at least. The police force. The press. Government offices. I’m very glad I pushed the Congress into implementing an undercover program three years ago.”

 

Newt found himself smiling. “That couldn’t have been easy.”

 

Graves made an exaggerated sigh. “Like pulling one’s whole set of teeth. But at least it’s worth it. Now we have eyes and ears in various strategic positions. Will be very helpful too if things go from bad to worse.” He paused, frowning. “What I don’t understand is why we haven’t found the creature yet. They’re quite big, aren’t they?

 

“Yes, but so is the waterfront area,” Newt pointed out. “The number of warehouses alone means endless possibilities of hiding places.”

 

“And there’s still the question of the venom,” Graves muttered. “Damn it.”

 

“Mr Hambleton said that he would contact a friend of his who’s also an expert in the field. A professor in Ilvermorny?”

 

“Professor Sharma, yes, the Potion Master.” Graves nodded in approval. “That’s good. If he can determine the source of the poison, it’ll help us greatly.”

 

They fell into a spell of silence, each occupied with his own thought. Newt was thinking about dens. A large crate, possibly, or a dark corner of a building—somewhere a hunted creature could feel moderately safe. Three creatures meant three variables. Quintapeds did not usually hunt together, and the snake, he wasn’t sure what to think about the snake.

 

When Newt looked up, he found Graves watching him solemnly.

 

“May I see your neck?”

 

The question caught him off-guard and Newt couldn’t quite cover his defensive flinch. “It’s fine.”

 

“Just to make sure.”

 

“You didn’t hurt me, Mr Graves.”

 

“Then where’s the harm in letting me look?”

 

Newt almost rolled his eyes. “Not harm, no, but it’s really unnecessary-”

 

“Please.”

 

Perhaps it was the word, or the tone of voice, or the look on Graves’s face. Newt found himself giving in, however reluctantly.

 

“All right.”

 

Graves moved to sit next to him. His hands were agonisingly gentle as they cradled Newt’s face, completely unaware of the havoc they were wreaking on Newt’s poor heart. His magic stirred. The same cooling sensation curled around Newt’s neck, but their proximity made him feel faint. This close, he could feel the other man’s warmth. Smell his aftershave. See the tiny scar above his left eye. Newt was trembling. Without anything else to distract him, every little detail felt magnified. Too much.

 

“Does it hurt?” Graved sounded unusually hesitant.

 

“No.” Newt tried to duck his head, but Graves’s hand kept him in place, leaving him open to his intense scrutiny. The fact that he was still wearing the other man’s coat made him feel twice as vulnerable.

 

“I’m really sorry.”

 

“Please,” Newt protested weakly, “it was my fault. I should’ve knocked first.”

 

“Still.” Graves was frowning and Newt fought down an urge to smooth it away with a caress—or worse, a kiss. He had to swallow his disappointment when the hands fell away from his face. “Will you be alright to continue working on this case?”

 

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

 

“You were…” Graves gestured toward his waist. It took Newt a moment to understand that Graves was referring to his previous less-than-pleasant encounter with a quintaped.

 

“It’s nothing,” he  said quickly. “An old wound, really. Two years ago, maybe three. I know it looks ugly but it’s completely healed. In fact, I was very lucky, because my companion at that time knew quite a lot about healing magic. There’s no nerve damage or anything, so you don’t have to worry if I’m going to slow you down or burden your Aurors. In fact, I think I’m quite–”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Graves cut his explanation short, frowning a little.

 

Newt shot him a surprised glance. “Then... what did you mean?”

 

“It’s not unknown that horrific events can leave, well, a certain degree of trauma. Won’t close proximity with the creature affect you?”

 

“Oh. I see.” Newt nodded, relieved. “You’re correct, of course. But in this case, you have nothing to worry about. I’m perfectly all right. I won’t lose my wits around them or cause troubles for–”

 

“That’s not what I’m worried about either.” Graves’s lips twitched. “Not quite.”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

 

“Never mind.” Graves let it go with a sigh—although Newt felt almost certain that he wasn’t imagining the hint of fondness in it. “As long as you’re sure.”

 

“I am. Like I said, it’s an old wound. Happened a lot in my field.”

 

“If that’s supposed to be reassuring, I can tell you it isn’t.”

 

Newt flushed. “All I’m saying is, I’m all right. So don’t worry about me.”

 

“But I do.”

 

And what could one say to that? Newt looked away, flustered and confused, as he pretended to stare into the fire. No one had ever treated him like this. It made his heart pound and his mind wobble—a thoroughly unhealthy combination, since it left him open to some very questionable suggestions and made him do very questionable things.

 

Like what he was about to do right now.

 

“There is something about me that I haven’t told you,” Newt heard himself say in a small voice. “Yet.”

 

Graves raised his eyebrows. “Of course there is.”

 

“I mean…” Newt swallowed. “I should’ve told you from the start.”

 

“I’m going to hate this, aren’t I?” Graves said wryly.

 

“Well, that depends on whether you insist on looking at it _negatively_ instead of–”

 

“ _What_ is it?”

 

“All right.” Newt took a deep breath, steeling himself. “You know that case I’ve been carrying around?”

 

_**End Chapter 5** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean I planned the entire thing only to get Newt into Graves's coat? Such a silly notion :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support and comments. Hopefully you'll enjoy this update :)

Any hope Newt had secretly harboured that to show Graves the content of his case might be a good idea disappeared as soon as he saw the Director’s face.

 

The man said nothing for what felt like a long, painful eternity. He only stared, silently and balefully, at the various habitats crowding the space like he wanted to set them on fire. All the while, Newt maintained a rather pathetic and confused chatter about the variety of creatures roaming about in the area. The giant dung beetles were particularly unhelpful; they made their slow, leisurely progress across the floor, each with a large accumulation of dung and dirt and other unsavoury ingredients, as if there were no displeased Director of Magical Security present in their midst.

 

Definitely, _definitely_ not a good idea.

 

“Answer me honestly, once and for all,” Graves suddenly said, his tone as cutting as his expression was hard—and what little remained of Newt’s hope wilted. “Is the quintaped one of yours?”

 

It took Newt a moment to comprehend that Graves was talking about the killings. “No,” he answered quickly.

 

“Look me in the eye and say that again.”

 

Newt forced himself to look up, to meet those stern, grey eyes. There was no warmth. They looked at him the way they looked at the dung beetles, except worse.

 

“The quintaped,” he began, wishing that his voice could sound more firm, more convincing, “I mean, the _quintapeds_ involved in the killings did not come from this case. I’ve never had any in here, and I don’t know how the ones you’re looking for got into New York.”

 

Graves made a sharp, derisive sound through his nose and turned away. Newt’s heart plummeted into his stomach. He had made a horrible mistake. Really, what had he been thinking, showing his suitcase to _Graves_? Good man or no, it was still too much of a gamble. He would never forgive himself if he caused any of his creatures harm for the sake of a little hope, fuelled by nothing but a little crush and silly optimism.

 

“You have a Thunderbird.”

 

 _Among others,_ Newt almost quipped, except now was clearly not the best time to run his mouth. “Yes,” he said instead, meek and contrite. Be it among beasts or among humans, self-preservation always came first.

 

Sadly, none of his creatures seemed inclined to follow this very simple and very useful tenet.

 

First, a swarm of Billywigs passed overhead, one of them landing on his nose. Then a Jarvey (either Sophie or Mrs Crump) darted across, bumping into their feet and spewing oaths in at least six languages. Such an impressive feat managed to provoke the other Jarveys into flaunting their own fluency. The resulting hullabaloo, in turn, seemed to offend a couple other creatures with more delicate sensibilities. An ominous-sounding roar came from deeper inside the case, followed by a second, a third, and finally a full concerto of angry bellows and unfriendly noises.

 

And then there was Frank. Frank, who was beautiful and magnificent and, for some unknown but disastrous reasons, determined to hold a staring contest with the man who would decide their fates. Newt fell into miserable silence, eyes trained on the ground. The pair of dung beetles still went about their business with perfect indifference. He took some small comfort in watching their slow, stolid advance. Life, they seemed to say, goes on.

 

He was still staring at the dung beetles when Graves finally turned around, once again facing him. “Here’s one thing I can’t wrap my head around,” he said matter-of-factly. “Why are you showing me all this?”

 

Newt glanced up, wary. “What do you mean?”

 

An impatient hand waved at their surroundings. “We’re investigating a murder case and the chief culprit is a magical beast. Beasts. And you have here a case full of magical beasts. What, in the name of Merlin and Morgana and everything with the slightest morsel of common sense, could’ve possessed you to reveal this fact to me, the Director of Magical Security?”

 

Newt seriously considered lying. In fact, he had concocted about a dozen lies before finally coming to the inevitable conclusion that in this case, honesty was probably the best policy.

 

“It’s only right that you should know,” he finally said in his most earnest voice.

 

“Because it’s only right,” Graves deadpanned, his expression somewhere between irritated and incredulous. “Because it’s only _right._ Really, I can’t imagine how you’ve survived all these years, Mr Scamander, considering all the unbelievably naïve, thoroughly stupid things you insist on doing.”

 

Newt felt his face heat up, humiliation a horrible weight in his stomach. It wasn’t like he didn’t know what other people thought of him, but to have the words thrown to his face so openly—and by a person he wanted to impress, no less—was a lot more painful than he remembered. It took him a while to gather what courage he had left and force himself to reply.

 

“From experience, Mr Graves. That’s the only way one gets through life, as far as I know.”

 

Graves made no answer, although the set of his jaw clearly said that he was not pleased. Newt swallowed thickly. “I said it’s only right,” he continued a moment later with great effort, “precisely because you’re the Director. If you understand what they are like, that none of these creatures are dangerous as long as one knows what to do, then maybe you won’t think too badly about them.”

 

“Two, possibly three, magical beasts are murdering people in my city and you _hoped_ I wouldn’t think badly about them,” Graves said, a touch incredulous.

 

“You are a just man,” Newt declared, as firmly as he could. “You are neither rash nor cruel, and I believe you’ll be able to come to the right decision if–”

 

“You don’t know anything about me, Mr Scamander.”

 

The interruption was brusque, lined by anger. Newt immediately clamped his mouth shut, kept his head lowered. He had met anger too often not to appreciate that silence was often the best way to deal with it. A response would only provoke another response, often leading to a full-blown argument. Silence, on the other hand, would sow doubt and push the other party to think twice.

 

When Graves spoke again, he was visibly calmer despite any lingering sharpness in his tone. “It still doesn’t explain why you brought so many of them here. Or why you have them in the first place.”

 

“That’s not exactly true,” Newt was quick to correct him. “I didn’t bring them into the country; they just happened to be with me when I did.”

 

A loud snort. “I fail to see the difference.”

 

“But there’s a difference. It wasn’t my intention to bring them to New York. But I couldn’t just leave them somewhere without daily care or supervision.”

 

“If they’re so troublesome, then why did you collect them in the first place?”

 

Newt paused, taking the time to arrange his words. “Most creatures here were either injured or stranded far away from home when I found them—usually because they were being smuggled elsewhere. My only plan is to return them to their original habitat, nothing more. There are a few special cases, like the Graphorns—they’re nearly extinct—but for the most part, this case only serves as a temporary refuge. And these creatures, many of them are injured and in need of daily care. Leaving them, even if only for a few days, is not an option.”

 

“Then I guess the question is what was so important that you had to visit New York _while_ carrying your entire menagerie,” Graves pointed out.

 

Newt took a deep breath. Now that it had come to this, he might as well go all the way and take the plunge.

 

“For Frank here.” He stepped toward the Thunderbird, who was still eyeing Graves suspiciously. “He’s from Arizona and I’m here to bring him home. The only reason why he’s still here is because his right wing hasn’t completely healed yet. He’s been in captivity for so long and his injuries, they take longer to heal.”

 

“So you’re here only because you want to bring a Thunderbird back to its habitat.”

 

“That and do some additional research for my book.”

 

“I find that very hard to believe,” Graves said point-blank.

 

Newt nodded, too used to such reactions to take any real offence. “Yes. Most people can’t understand why anyone would care so much about magical beasts. And inability to understand leads to disbelief—it’s only logical. Still, that’s the truth.”

 

Once more Graves fell silent, brow furrowed and eyes fixed on the dung beetles. Newt waited, fiddling with a button on his sleeve until he realised that it wasn’t exactly _his_ sleeve; it was _Graves’s_ and the man might not take kindly to Newt’s ruining his beautiful coat on top of everything else.

 

“If I were to give you a choice,” Graves finally spoke again, “to have the case confiscated or to have yourself banned from the States, you would choose the latter, wouldn’t you?”

 

Newt didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

 

“And then you’d find a way to sneak back into the country and _rescue_ the quintapeds all the same.”

 

This time, Newt bit his lips and did not answer. Which seemed to be all the answer Graves needed. The man closed in his eyes, muttered a string of profanities under his breath, and then heaved a deep sigh.

 

“All right, this is what we’re going to do,” he declared loudly, coming to a decision. “You’re going to show me every single creature in this case. No exception. _I_ need to know about them and I mean _every_ single one of them. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes,” Newt said quickly, and he did. Graves might not be showing the most sympathetic response to his cause, but he was still offering Newt a way out. One that could cost him a great deal, no less. By telling the Director of Magical Security about his creatures, then Newt would effectively be transferring all responsibility to Graves’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

 

“Don’t thank me yet, Mr Scamander. I haven’t made my decision.”

 

Newt nodded. A chance to explain was already more than he had dared to hope, especially after Graves’s display of severity earlier. 

 

He arranged the tour carefully, starting with Frank. Thunderbirds were magnificent and they _looked_ magnificent. Frank was stunning with his six powerful wings spanned wide, feathers gleaming with colours. Even now, he could still take Newt’s breath away, and perhaps he got a little carried away because Graves was staring at him at the end of his ramblings about pectoral muscles.

 

“Sorry.” Newt cleared his throat, slightly blushing. “Um. Should we continue?”

 

Graves gestured toward the next habitat. “After you.”

 

They made their way slowly around the case. Newt meant to be careful—not to speak too much and bore his audience as he was wont to do when talking about magical beasts. It was Graves who demanded explanations for each and every creature. Four quills hovered around him, busily taking down notes on long scrolls of parchment as he questioned Newt on this or that particular—why Bowtruckles were guarding trees, why Graphorns were almost extinct, what substance Mooncalf dung actually contained that was so beneficial for magical plants _and could it be dangerous for humans_ —which Newt was only too happy to answer. This was not mere formality, he realised giddily. Graves was taking this seriously, and if Newt hadn’t already suffered from a disastrous case of infatuation for the man, he certainly would have now.

 

But then he introduced him to Prudence.

 

“She’s… uh, yes, she’s a Nundu.”

 

Graves fell completely silent. Even the quills had suddenly stilled, dripping ink on parchment. A fierce debate was obviously raging inside his head as he stared grimly at Prudence—who, to Newt’s distress, was returning the attention in kind and managed to look very menacing indeed.

 

“She’s really very gentle,” he said desperately. “Very peaceful. I know that Nundus’ reputation isn’t the best, but the truth is they will never use their toxin unless they have no other choice. And certainly never in daily life. Look at her teeth. As far as weapons go, they’re more than enough to subdue any prey. In fact, if we’re talking about potential danger, plenty of other creatures pose a greater threat–”

 

“Are you saying that she’s not the most dangerous creature you have in here?” Graves’s interruption came swiftly and without mercy. Newt bit his tongue, cursing at his own choice of words.

 

“Well, when you put it like that…”

 

“Is she or is she not?”

 

“Of course not. I mean,” Newt swallowed, desperately trying to come up with a clear, sensible explanation that would exonerate Prudence without incriminating anyone else. “Prudence is very mild-tempered. Not at all excitable. Yes, the toxin is a fact, but the probability that she will ever use it is extremely minuscule. Completely negligible.”

 

“So she’s not,” Graves concluded matter-of-factly. “You have something else more dangerous in here.”

 

“Not more dangerous, exactly,” Newt muttered, trying not to feel like he was saving one of his children by selling another. “But due to their… circumstances, should we say? They might lose their temper more easily. _Might_.”

 

For a moment, Graves looked like he wanted to destroy something. “What creature is this?” he asked in a strained voice.

 

Newt bit his lips. “A Runespoor.”

 

“What in Morgana’s name is a Runespoor?”

 

“They’re, um, a three-headed snake. From Burkina Faso. Quite charming and really terribly smart. The problem is they often bicker among themselves, which isn’t exactly conducive for their own survival. Or the safety of anyone else around them, for that matter–”

 

“All right.” Graves held up a hand to interrupt him. “Just show them to me.”

 

“Of course. I mean, I have every intention to show them to you. It’s just.” Newt bit his lips. “May I… may I say something first?”

 

Graves raised his eyebrows. Newt hurriedly continued, stumbling over his words, “The Runespoor—that is, the bigger ones—might seem a little… I’m not sure if the word if quite apt but, well, _intimidating_ , I suppose. But it’s really just their size. They’re basically snakes and snakes never stop growing. So their size is only on account of–”

 

“Their age?”

 

“Yes, indeed.” Newt nodded, smiling nervously. “So please, _please_ don’t let their size prejudice you against them.”

 

“You don’t have to worry,” Graves said darkly, looking past Newt’s shoulder. “If you remember, I didn’t even let the size of your little thief prejudice me against him.”

 

A small, terrified squeak answered, followed by the sound of leaves rustling and tiny feet scampering away. Newt tried not to facepalm.

 

“That’s true, I suppose,” he mumbled in defeat.

 

“Now show me this three-headed menace.” Graves paused, his attention suddenly fixed on the ground. “You’ve hurt yourself.”

 

“Oh.” Newt looked down, noticing, for the first time, that he had been walking barefoot. So that was why his feet had been hurting a bit. “Ah. Yes. I suppose. But don’t worry about it.”

 

“You’re _bleeding_.”

 

“It’s nothing. Just a little scratch.”

 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” The irritation had returned full force and Newt couldn’t help but look down, recoiling slightly.

 

“We were… talking about the creatures and I didn’t want to interrupt our conversation? It really doesn’t hurt that much.”

 

The reassurance didn’t seem to improve the Graves’s temper in the slightest; in fact, he now looked even angrier. “Sit down,” he ordered sharply.

 

“Mr Graves–”

 

“ _Mr Scamander_.”

 

“I can’t sit here,” Newt protested weakly. They were in the nocturnal habitat and everything was either covered in dust or covered in dirt. “Your nice coat–”

 

“–is mine and I can do what I want with it,” Graves said decisively. “Now sit down.”

 

Newt valiantly managed a few moments of defiance, but was soon forced to admit that giving in was probably more sensible in this case. Now that he was aware of the throbbing pain in his feet, it seemed to worsen by the second. He limped to the nearest rock and sat down, careful to arrange the fall of the coat that it didn’t reveal too much skin. Which, to his distress, was way more difficult than it sounded.

 

But then Graves lowered himself to his knees and it became ten times worse.

 

“Mr Graves–!”

 

“Stay still,” he said sternly, his hand on Newt’s knee and pressing down. “Let me see your feet.”

 

“Please, you don’t have to–”

 

“If only you had said something earlier, then we wouldn’t have to be in this situation, would we?” Graves gave him a pointed look. Newt had a hundred arguments lined up except his mouth seemed to have dried up and it was all he could do not to embarrass himself further, like trying to run away and possibly falling flat on his face, considering the state of his feet.

 

Luckily at that moment, distraction materialised in the shape of Dougal, carrying a jar of salve. Newt almost wrapped his arms around the Demiguise and sobbed in relief.

 

“His name is Dougal,” he hastily introduced them. The look on Graves’s face, he couldn’t help but notice, was not exactly encouraging. “A Demiguise. He came from China and... he can disappear at will. Dougal, this is Mr Graves.”

 

“Hello, Dougal,” Graves said solemnly. He was rewarded with an equally solemn nod and—to Newt’s surprise—the jar being pressed into his hand. “Thank you.”

 

“It’s a mix of herbs,” he explained at Graves’s questioning glance. “A formula I learned during my travels. Yarrow, plantain, dandelion roots, mistletoe berries, all mixed into a salve. Very effective to treat minor cuts and scratches. Just let me–”

 

“First of all, the cuts must be cleaned,” Graves declared firmly.

 

For a horrifying moment, Newt thought the other man was about to do just that. “No, please, Mr Graves, I can–”

 

“Be quiet.” A wave of his hand and Newt gasped when something cold encased his feet.

 

“Oh.” It felt nice. Water, or more precisely, a balloon of water, cool enough to soothe the sting while rubbing gently to wash the dirt off.

 

“A trick I learned in the war,” Graves told him in a kinder tone. “Aguamenti water is sterile, so you don’t risk infection.”

 

“That’s really clever,” Newt said, both amazed and admiring. He could really use a spell like that in the wild. “You were… in the war?”

 

“Yes. Not an experience I care to repeat.”

 

To this, Newt said nothing. He hated the war, but he loved working with dragons, all the process of learning and understanding them. Two had been particularly close to him. They had been the most difficult of the bunch at first, and it had taken him five months to make them tolerate him, and then another five to earn their trust. Then the long, hellish months at the frontline. As grateful as he had been when the Armistice finally came about, their separation had nearly broken his heart.

 

“Is this how it’s done?”

 

Newt almost jumped. When he finally noticed what was happening, he blushed to the roots of his hair.

 

“Mr Graves,” he murmured helplessly. The Director was still kneeling on the ground, one hand holding his left foot and the other carefully applying the salve on the many cuts that littered his skin.

 

“Am I doing it wrong?”

 

“No, but you really don’t have to–”

 

“Consider it a reminder.” He glanced up and there was a hint of humour in his eyes that made Newt’s breath catch. “So maybe the next time you get hurt, you’ll remember to say something before it gets this bad.”

 

“It really isn’t that bad,” Newt muttered, fingers clenching on the rock until the rough surface dug into his palms. It was the way Graves touched him, gentle and careful, like something would break if he had been anything but gentle and careful. Like Newt was someone precious.

 

“I disagree. But you’ll insist because you not only are stubborn, but also have no concept of self-preservation. But I’ll still disagree because I’m right. So here we are at an impasse, neither willing to back down—except you’re the one who’s hurt. Which means that you can’t move. Which means that you’re entirely in my power and you have no choice in the matter. Ergo, I win. The end.”

 

Newt rolled his eyes, trying very hard not to smile and failing miserably. “You’re making fun of me.”

 

Graves feigned a scandalised gasp. “What cruel slander. I thought we’re supposed to be dating, Mr Scamander.” He paused, thumb stroking the gentle dip just under Newt’s right ankle. “Newt.”

 

A small whimper left his throat before Newt could stop it. There was something unbearably intimate to hear his name caressed by that lovely, husky voice. Graves, who undoubtedly noticed his reaction, was now smiling.

 

“May I call you Newt?”

 

It took him a few deep breaths and some confused internal screaming to find his voice. “Why on earth would you want to?” he asked faintly.

 

“It’s a lovely name.”

 

“Right.” Newt resisted an urge to snort. “As if ‘Percival’ is not far lovelier.”

 

A grin spread across Graves’s face. “You think my name is lovely?”

 

“It’s just an observation,” Newt said miserably, wishing that he had just kept his mouth shut. Why, _why_ did he have to dig his own grave every single time?

 

“You may call me Percival if you wish,” came the magnanimous offer. “Now, do I get the same courtesy?”

 

The refusal was at the tip of Newt’s tongue, but an idea suddenly took hold of him. Not the most clever—or the most prudent, for that matter—but today seemed to be the day where he chucked every scrap of common sense out of the window.

 

“Maybe if…” he bit his lower lip, hesitating for a moment, “if you promise not to confiscate my case?”

 

The Director raised his eyebrows. “Are you trying to bargain with me, Mr Scamander? Using yourself as the prize?”

 

“It’s only a name.”

 

“And you think your name is worth that much, don’t you?”

 

“I don’t know.” Newt glanced up, caught in that strange state between mortified and determined. “I believe the decision is yours, Mr Graves.”

 

There was no response for some time. Graves was still cradling the base of his ankle, eyes intent on him. He was on his knees but he looked like a king, and Newt tried very hard not to tremble, not even when the hand slowly moved, up the curve of his calf, past old scars that stitched the skin too tight, to the soft, sensitive patch under his knee.

 

“You dare to bargain with me like this?” Perhaps there was amusement in it, or wonder, or even disdain, but the racket inside Newt’s chest was too loud for him to distinguish one from any other. “While wearing my coat and with the fate of all your creatures entirely in my hand?”

 

“It’s not a question of dare.” Newt willed his voice not to shake—too much, at least. His hands were clutching at the fabrics of the coat, keeping them in place. “It’s just what I can do in this situation.”

 

Graves frowned, but made no reply. Newt kept his eyes lowered, aware of the other man’s scrutiny. The hand had moved to the top of his knee, a warm, alien presence.

 

“I apologise for my words earlier.”

 

Newt glanced up, surprised. “What?”

 

“When I called you naïve.” Graves’s expression was sombre, as was his tone. “And stupid. That was really uncalled-for.”

 

“But,” Newt swallowed, unsure as to where this sudden apology had come from, “not that I don’t appreciate it, Mr Graves, but you’re perfectly entitled to your opinion.”

 

“It’s not an opinion as much as... an expression of frustration, honestly.”

 

“And you’re perfectly entitled to have both. This, everything in here, couldn’t have been a pleasant surprise.”

 

“Be that as it may, it's still an incredibly rude thing to do. Are you saying that you weren’t hurt when I said those things?”

 

Newt frowned. “It’s... irrelevant.”

 

Graves’s expression twisted into disbelief. “Of course, it’s relevant. It’s about you and I said it to you.”

 

Newt took a deep breath to keep his voice steady. “All I’m saying is, everyone has the right to have an opinion. And in return, the person who receives this opinion also has the right to do with it as they see fit.”

 

A small smile flickered across the other man’s face. “You mean throw it into the trash, where it belongs?”

 

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” Newt muttered. For some reasons, it only made Graves’s smile widen.

 

“It deserves no less than that.” A pause, and then Graves took his hand, pressing slightly. “I wasn’t really thinking. I’m sorry.”

 

Newt wanted to shake his head and begin his argument all over again, but a tiny part of him was grateful for the apology. It was certainly a novel experience, to receive such a kind, heartfelt thing. “I suppose much of these must’ve come rather as a shock,” he murmured, glancing at the direction of Prudence's rock.

 

“That’s one way to put it.” Graves’s tone was wry, but the man himself was smiling. Newt returned it tentatively; he could not help but feel a little guilty.

 

“I’m… really sorry for bringing them here, into your country. Well, not _sorry_ , per se, but I do realise how much trouble this could cause you. And yes, I broke the law—a stupid law, but still. Not that I’m saying MACUSA is stupid, not at all, just–”

 

Graves was laughing and it made the corners of his eyes crinkled charmingly. “Just in need of improvement?”

 

Newt looked away uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean to criticise. Please don’t take offence.”

 

“I don’t,” Graves declared, rising to his feet. Even that simple movement looked wonderfully elegant in Newt’s eyes. “And I don’t believe in the existence of a perfect law either. There is always the possibility of change. Society isn’t stagnant. Laws shouldn’t be either.”

 

Newt stared at him, stunned. “Really?”

 

“You sound surprised.”

 

“Usually it’s not...” This time, he stopped himself before he could say something wrong—again. As far as government officials went, Graves had proved himself far better and kinder than most, but any further criticism on his profession could hardly work in Newt’s favour. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like you,” he finally settled for a neutral comment.

 

“Because there isn’t anyone like me.” Graves grinned playfully when Newt huffed, exasperated. “Your feet, how are they?”

 

“Much better.” Newt was about to rise, but Graves pressed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

 

“Almost forgot one thing.”

 

Graves slipped his wand out of its holster. It was a beautiful wand, a long, sleek thing made of ebony and elegantly capped with silver—almost as impressive as the man who wielded it. One firm, wordless flick, and twigs and fallen leaves danced in the wind, twirling, entwined. Slowly, they coalesced, morphing into a more distinct shape. Newt gaped; it was a pair of boots, dark brown and stylish, with faint patterns of leaves all over the surface, and they settled around his feet like velvet cocoons.

 

The wind died down, as suddenly as it had risen. A moment of stupefied silence followed as Newt considered how powerful one’s magic must be to be able to pull off something like that.

 

“Only temporary, I’m afraid,” Graves was speaking again, “but they’ll do for the next few hours.”

 

Newt finally found his voice. “You really don’t have to, I have a spare–”

 

“They go with the coat,” Graves interrupted his protest swiftly. “Now, weren’t you about to show me some three-headed thing?”

 

“Runespoor,” Newt mumbled, and was about to launch into a long spiel about the magnificence of the species and why they deserved more credits than just being “some three-headed thing” when Graves offered him a hand. To help him to his feet. Which, in Newt’s opinion, was completely unnecessary. The salve worked quickly and there was barely a sting now—but surely, _surely_ to refuse would be impolite?

 

Cheeks hot in embarrassment, he accepted the help. Well-intended, no doubt. Still grinning, Graves steadied him on his feet and, to Newt’s combined distress and delight, did not let go of his hand until they reached the caves.

 

Where the grin promptly disappeared.

 

In its place was incredulity, etched so deeply into the Director’s face it was almost a scowl. Newt, used to toiling under unfavourable odds, tried not to feel _too_ discouraged and quickly did the necessary introductions, with helpful morsels of information sprinkled here and there.

 

“Are you sure that’s quite safe?” Graves asked warily, watching the way each head curled around Newt.

 

“Oh, yes.” Newt quickly nodded, clutching at Porthos (who looked like he was barely seconds away from attacking). Athos, on the other hand, seemed determined to divest Newt of the coat by nudging at his legs (probably because it did not smell like him) while Aramis, always the careful one, was staring at Graves in calculating silence. “Obviously there are quite a few contributing factors. I mean, I’ve known them since they were, well, smaller. They’re more or less used to me. But they can still be a bit temperamental, so I wouldn’t recommend for anyone else to come this close until– Athos, will you stop that, please?”

 

Athos did, but not without baring his fangs at Graves first. Obviously he could guess who the owner of the coat was. “That’s rather rude,” Newt said reproachfully, which only earned him a soft hiss. He shot Graves an apologetic look. “So sorry. It’s nothing personal. They’re quite territorial, and can be a bit overprotective too sometimes, it really has nothing to do with you or anything…”

 

“I can see that,” Graves said dryly, but at least he looked intrigued instead of put off. Newt could not help the small spark of hope in his chest.

 

“It’s probably just because I’m wearing your coat, so they don’t know what to make of you. Which, in a way, is a good thing. If I smell like you, I mean. They probably think that you’re my–”

 

“Mate?”

 

 “– _friend_.” Newt flushed and glared at the smirking man. “Although, yes, I suppose a mate is a possibility. But my point is, this sort of thing, it signifies trust. Now they know that I trust you.”

 

Graves made no reply, his expression unreadable as he fixed his eyes on Aramis, who was returning his gaze evenly. Newt tightened his hold around Porthos, sensing the tension in the strong muscles under his arms. As quarrelsome as they could be most of the days, the fact that they had survived this long without causing each other significant injuries spoke volumes. None of them would tolerate a real threat against the other two.

 

“Do you realise that you can easily fit inside their mouth?” Graves finally spoke again, returning his attention to Newt. “If they, say, yawn or something.”

 

“They don’t yawn,” Newt said quickly. “And yes, I realise that, but really, it’s just a size issue. They’re not necessarily more dangerous only because they’re bigger.”

 

“And yet, according to you, they are more dangerous than a Nundu.”

 

“They are _potentially_ more dangerous under some circumstances,” he quickly corrected, putting an emphasis on the word. “But honestly, if we have to discuss about danger, then we really shouldn’t leave out the most dangerous creature the world has ever known.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“Humans.”

 

Graves raised an eyebrow, an amused smile on his lips. “Indeed.”

 

Newt tried to ignore the rising mortification in him. Again, Graves was humouring him—a naïve child, and stupid too, so he had said—but at least this allowed him a chance to explain. “You noticed that I could easily fit inside a Runespoor’s mouth,” he began, his voice stronger than he actually felt. “And yet, you don’t notice that every day you meet and work with hundreds of far more dangerous creatures. And these creatures, they can simply raise their wand and fire a killing curse at you—and some of them trained at it too. Surely they pose more danger to society in general than just one, or three, very large mouths.”

 

“True, except that’s a purely theoretical problem,” Graves pointed out. “In practice, humans, including wizards, are governed by laws and values above their desires and instincts. Performing a killing curse without legal sanction is a capital offence, punishable by death. Enough to discourage most people from using it. Magical beasts don’t have these laws— _fences_ , if you like—to restrict their actions.”

 

Newt shook his head. “But they do. Big or small, no beast attacks indiscriminately. When they do attack, it’s usually to protect themselves or their offsprings, or to defend their territory.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I think what you mean is, we speak different languages. We don’t understand them, and they don’t understand us. But we can learn, especially us, humans. Aren’t we supposed to be the smartest? Surely we can try to understand each other—except in order to do that, we need interpreters. People who can understand both sides. Know the customs of both sides.”

 

“Meaning, Magizoologists. A Beast Division.”

 

“Ideally,” Newt admitted, hiding half of his face behind the curve of Athos’s neck.

 

Graves was grinning now. “I must admit, you do know how to hammer in an argument.”

 

“Speaking of arguments,” Newt cleared his throat and stepped away from the Runespoor, “would you like to see my manuscript? It’s not quite done yet, and some chapters are still all over the place— _literally_ all over the place—but if you want…?”

 

“I’d be honoured,” the Director sounded surprised.

 

Newt’s makeshift study was near the entrance. He took a shortcut, past chirping Occamies and silent Bowtruckles. The place was a mess and he could only swallow his embarrassment as he tried to bring his notes into some sort of order. There was a suggestion of a frown on Graves’s face, but he said nothing as he silently thumbed through a sheaf of notes on creatures in Greater Asia.

 

“Some sections are still lacking,” Newt found himself rambling in the growing silence. “Not enough time and not enough data. Travel permits were rather a problem and sneaking around could only provide so much opportunity for observation. But a book like this—I mean, an encyclopedia of sorts—it’s an ongoing project. This is only the beginning and I hope I’ll be able to include more in later editions.”

 

“When will it be published?”

 

“Next year, most likely. I’m supposed to send the first draft in a month.”

 

Graves returned the notes and said solemnly, “This should be compulsory reading for every MACUSA employee. In fact, every student in Ilvermorny too.”

 

Newt blushed a little, pleased. “Do you really think so? One of my professors said the same thing about Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore—do you know him by any chance?”

 

“Everyone _knows_ Albus Dumbledore,” Graves said dryly.

 

Newt bit down a sheepish smile. They made their way back to the forest habitat and continued the tour. Newt found himself enjoying it more than he had. It was a new experience to have someone who argued over everything he said and yet also listened— _really_ listened. He couldn’t help but marvel at Graves’s ability to absorb information and the way his mind worked, quick, sharp, leaving no stone unturned.

 

It was past midnight when they finally left the case.

 

“We’ll discuss more about this in the morning,” Graves declared, yawning. Newt shot a hopeful glance in his direction.

 

“So you’re not going to throw me in jail?”

 

“Don’t tempt me, Mr Scamander,” was the wry answer. “Where are you living right now?”

 

“Oh, I’m renting a room downtown.”

 

“From a No-Maj?”

 

“It’s perfectly safe,” Newt hurriedly assured him. “The door has a lock and–”

 

“You have a case full of– never mind.” Graves took his arm in a firm grip. “You’re staying with me.”

 

Newt gaped. “Oh, no, Mr Graves, I can’t possibly–”

 

“It will be too much of a hassle to look for another place right now. Besides, if we’re going forward with the plan, it’s better if you stay with me.”

 

“Please, I don’t want to be a nuisance–”

 

“I have plenty of guest rooms, so you won’t be a nuisance. Look,” Graves rubbed a hand across his face, “can we argue about this in the morning? After we’ve got some sleep?”

 

That was when Newt realised how exhausted Graves must be—first the killings, and then dealing with everything in Newt’s suitcase. To argue with him now would not only be ungrateful but also extremely rude. Besides, now that Graves knew that he had a case full of magical beasts, it only made sense that he would want to keep a close watch on him.

 

“If you’re sure,” Newt said in a small voice.

 

“I am. Get your case.”

 

_**End Chapter 6** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, he's still in the coat. I'm so sorry. I TRIED to get him out of it at some point because omg it must've felt totally awkward the poor boy, but then I remembered that I'm here to make Newt's life miserable so :D


	7. Chapter 7

Newt Scamander loved his brother. This was a fact as indisputable and self-evident as the sun is bright and the ocean is deep.

 

That said, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to try hexing said brother through The Parchment.

 

_‘…we have a huge amount of files on him, and by huge I mean astronomical. Exasperatingly so. Not that he doesn’t do his job well, mind. In fact, he’s been doing such an **exemplary** job being MACUSA’s largest and fiercest guard dog that he makes an enemy out of everyone. Every self-respecting wizard out there trying to butt head with MACUSA hates him. My boss, I mean the bloke who used to have my job, absolutely did. Why, do you ask? Because the bastard never gives way an inch. I mean, can you imagine anything more infuriating? And do you really want someone that stubborn for a life partner?’_

‘Seus.’ Newt gripped his quill and tried very hard not to tear the parchment with the force of his writing, spelled or not. ‘It’s bloody six in the morning. And for Merlin’s sake, who’s talking about life partners?’

 

_‘Liar. It’s almost eight over there.’_

_Bugger._ Newt glanced at the small clock on his desk. Not for the first time since he had gotten out of bed, he cursed his brother’s mental acumen.

 

‘My point is, don’t you have a job to do? You’re the new Head of DMLE.’

 

‘ _It’s lunch break. And don’t try to distract me,_ _I’m not done talking.’_

 

Theseus began another long sermon titled “Why Dating an American (Specifically MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security) was a Colossally Bad Idea”. Newt sighed, praying for patience. He watched the parchment starting to fill up—rather quickly, because Theseus had a generous, looping handwriting that took twice the space, the kind that usually filled Newt with affection—and wondered if his brother had actually known Graves outside professional capacity. Probably not. More likely, this was the usual case of Theseus being Theseus.

 

After the incident with Leta and Newt’s subsequent expulsion from Hogwarts, what had once been a simple brotherly (if slightly annoying) protectiveness had turned into something ridiculous and overblown. This certainly wasn’t the first time that Theseus reacted badly to news in a similar vein. In fact, it was common knowledge that his response to anyone displaying any measure of interest in his little brother would almost always be outright hostility. To be fair, Newt realised that most of them were only interested in him because of his familiarity with magical beasts (or the company he kept in a certain case), so perhaps Theseus’s concern was not exactly misplaced. However, it was also something that his brother had never tired of reminding Newt—which, while it might be true, could hardly improve his sentiment on the matter.

 

The sermon ended with a reminder that he was British and would he really abandon his poor old brother by choosing an _American_ of all people, and didn’t he know that national pride should come before everything else (except family, of course) because after all _dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_.

 

‘Seriously? It’s better that I die for the sake of national pride than date an American?’

 

 _‘Of course not.’_ Even with an ocean between them, Newt could almost hear Theseus’s impatient huff. _‘Horace was a pretentious ass with some absurd fondness for hyperboles. That’s just a figure of speech. All I’m saying is this Graves, he’s not the person for you.’_

 

Newt could feel his annoyance mounting—fast. ‘And how do you know that? You’ve never even met him.’

 

_‘Actually I have. Once. Just in passing but–’_

 

‘And that’s enough to tell you he isn’t the person for me?’

 

_‘I know his type well enough, believe me, little brother.’_

 

Newt scoffed, rolling his eyes. ‘Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now. We’re dating.’

 

_‘That’s another thing I want to talk to you about. I mean, how long have you known this man? A couple of days? A few weeks at most? Are you sure it’s wise to start something so–’_

‘And I’m living in his house.’

 

There was a long, ominous pause. Newt hastily scribbled a ‘bye’ and stepped away from the parchment—just in time to avoid an explosion of ink and the abuse of an angry parchment as it tried to slap him on the face.

 

_‘NEWT SCAMANDER ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND–’_

 

Newt quickly slipped out of the study and locked the door with a powerful Locking Charm. The racket continued inside with increased ferocity. Newt winced; he could only imagine what kind of damage was being inflicted to his stuffs. Luckily, all his notes were now safe inside a secure box. Sighing, he cast a Silencing Charm to make sure then the commotion wouldn’t disturb the creatures too much, and then headed toward the entrance.

 

The room was already bathed in morning light when he climbed out, curtains drawn aside to reveal a bright blue sky. The sun was beaming down cheerfully, a complete contrast to yesterday’s clouds and glooms. For a moment, Newt stood in front of the window where it overlooked a neat, well-kept lawn. In the distance, past a lone chestnut tree, he could see the sprawling city of New York.

 

When they had arrived last night, he hadn’t been able to make much observation except that Graves’s place seemed to be located in the suburbs area. It turned out to be a redbrick building of immense proportion, so heavily warded that Newt had felt rather nauseous at first—at least until Graves had added his temporary signature to the house.

 

“Sorry,” the man had said with a wry smile. “My parents pretty much had paranoia flowing in their veins. But you’ll get used to the wards soon enough.”

 

And Newt had, much to his relief.

 

The guest bedroom was sparsely but elegantly furnished. Newt had spent a very comfortable night in the large antique bed—a true luxury compared to the bed in his tiny rented room downtown or the cot inside his case. Now, however, he couldn’t help but feel slightly intimidated. Graves obviously came from a very wealthy family, and as far as Newt’s experience had taught him, with great wealth often came great prejudice.

 

Seeing the rest of the house did not help. In daylight, the place was much more impressive than it had appeared last night, all mahogany-panelling and handsome antique furniture. Newt made his way down nervously, footsteps echoing too loudly on polished wooden steps. Everything was solemn and still, but sometimes his ears could catch the faintest whispers, almost too soft to be heard, only felt. Perhaps the house disapproved of him. Or his creatures. Which was not a good sign, he thought anxiously, especially for someone who was supposed to be dating the master of the house.

 

He found said master in the kitchen. To Newt’s relief, this part of the house was nothing like the rest. It was a bright, sunlit space with plenty of windows and walls painted a cheerful beige. The scent of coffee and something wonderfully sweet hung in the air. A  wireless radio sat in a corner and a newscaster was announcing the result of a preliminary match between Japan and South Africa for next year’s Quidditch World Cup.

 

Percival was sitting at the small dining table with a half-full cup of coffee in front of him. He was reading a newspaper, but he looked up at Newt’s entrance and smiled.

 

“Good morning.”

 

“Good morning,” Newt replied timidly, hesitating in the doorway. Graves looked the picture of ease and contentment surrounded by the comforts of his home, and Newt knew enough about privacy and the sanctity of it that he couldn’t help but feel a bit like an intruder.

 

“What’s wrong?” Graves frowned slightly. “Did something happen?”

 

“No, no, everything’s fine,” Newt said and hastily took the chair across from Graves. “Sorry for coming down so late.”

 

Graves waved away his apology. “Don’t worry about it. The office knows how to reach me if there’s an emergency. Did you sleep well?”

 

“Very well, thank you.”

 

“Everyone already got their breakfast?”

 

Newt blinked. “Who?”

 

Graves looked amused. “Your suitcase-dwellers.”

 

“Oh.” To say that Newt was surprised was a complete understatement. He could not remember the last time anyone—who was not his mother or Theseus—had inquired after the well-being of his creatures. “Yes, thank you,” he replied softly, inexplicable warmth spreading through him.

 

“Then it’s time for you to have yours.” An empty plate settled in front of him, followed by a stack of hotcakes with butter and maple syrup. Newt stared, both in pleasure and astonishment; it was exactly what he always had for breakfast in the coffeehouse where they had met. Before he could open his mouth, a beautiful china pot had appeared, pouring hot tea into a matching cup.

 

“I don’t know much about tea,” Graves continued. “Hopefully it’s all right.”

 

Newt quickly took the cup for a sip. “It’s perfect, thank you,” he declared earnestly—which might be a slight exaggeration, but it really wasn’t bad. Much better than the stuff he used to have in the coffeehouse.

 

The other man grinned at him. “Not a good liar, are you, Mr Scamander?”

 

Newt looked away, face heating up. “I’m… a little nervous.”

 

“So I see.” The note of amusement lingered in Graves’s voice, subdued as it was. “Well, you should eat first, and then we’ll talk.”

 

The hotcakes were very good, and so was the syrup. Newt suddenly realised that he was very hungry, having missed supper last night. He made quick work of everything on his plate, all the while aware that Graves’s eyes were still on him. The man remained silent, waiting until Newt had taken his last bite before speaking once more.

 

“So. I’ve been thinking about your case. Your _literal_ case.”

 

“Yes?” Newt glanced up from his cup of tea, half hopeful, half fearful. 

 

“There may be a solution. Not exactly ideal, but under the circumstances, some compromise is inevitable. Are you done?”

 

“Oh, yes.” Newt quickly drained his cup. As soon as he put it down, all the china and cutleries disappeared, leaving the table empty and spotless.

 

“My suggestion is this.” Graves waved a hand and a roll of parchment materialised, formal and thick, not unlike the one he had signed two days ago for their agreement—except this had a large symbol of MACUSA in the background. Newt bit his lips, pushing down his alarm at the sight of anything official. “You will list down everything you have in that case of yours. Every single one—what they’re called, how many they are, where they’re from—no exception. And then you will state your purpose for having them in your case, just like what you told me last night. Make sure to put it in the clearest term possible, so as not to allow any possibility of misunderstanding. Can you do that?”

 

“I... yes.” Newt paused, still eyeing the MACUSA symbol nervously. “But, if I may ask… what are you planning to do with this document?”

 

“It’s really quite simple. Once you’re done, you’ll sign your name and then I will bind the document legal. That means I accept everything you’ve written in there to be the truth, and using it as a legal basis, I can give you a temporary permit for the case—along with everything else in it.”

 

Newt stared at him, suddenly breathless with hope. “You can do that?”

 

“In case you haven’t noticed, Mr Scamander,” Graves said dryly, “you are talking to _the_ legal arm of MACUSA.”

 

“Oh, no, I knew that. Sort of. But what I mean is,” Newt swallowed, glancing up, “you’re… willing to do it?”

 

Graves did not answer at once. There was something in his expression that reminded Newt too much of pity and it made him quickly look away. In the end, what he felt did not matter. Newt knew that he would accept the offer, whatever the reason. Anything to keep his creatures safe. Besides, it would be rude to refuse Graves’s kindness after everything he had done for them.

 

“As it happens,” the other man’s tone was subdued, careful, “I have quite a few reasons for not wanting you to disappear too soon.”

 

Newt found himself unable to speak for some time. It was only with great effort that he could swallow the lump in his throat and manage a faint ‘thank you’.

 

Graves cleared his throat. “No exception,” he reminded him. “If one of them gets away and that creature is not in the list, I won’t be able to help you.”

 

Newt nodded. “I promise. And I’ll make sure that none of them can escape from the case.”

 

“Your little thief included.”

 

“His name is Niff,” Newt muttered. Graves shot him a grin.

 

“ _Niff_ included.”

 

“Yes. I promise.”

 

“I’ll hold you to that.” Graves paused and Newt looked up, just in time to catch the grin softening into a smile. “Newt.”

 

All in all, he was very grateful that he had an excuse to look down, hiding his horrible blush, and start writing.

 

 

 –

 

 

One of Newt’s greatest fears was to find himself the centre of public attention.

 

For as long as he could remember, he had always found any kind of attention embarrassing, even from the few people close to him. To suffer the same trial from strangers—let alone a _great_ number of strangers—was both distressing and terrifying. He disliked the way eyes would linger on his person, making judgments and speculations as they saw fit.

 

Like now.

 

The MACUSA building was particularly crowded at this time of day, full of witches and wizards hurrying about their business. Despite all the noise and activities, their arrival had not gone unnoticed. Newt was painfully conscious of the way a ripple of silence suddenly spread in the grand lobby. Rushing feet slowed down, some to a complete stop, and the din in the lofty space died down to a hushed murmur. Too many pairs of eyes were on them, following their slow progress across the hallway. He tried to make himself seem as small, as _inconspicuous_ as possible by hunching his shoulders in and keeping his eyes fixed on the floor—except the efforts were pretty much in vain since Graves had a very _conspicuous_ hand on Newt’s lower back.

 

And the ordeal did not end there. When they finally reached the Law Enforcement department, two people were already waiting in front of Graves’s office. Tina froze at the sight of them, eyes wide with shock. Seeing her face, Auror O’Connell turned around and promptly dropped his jaw.

 

For a moment, Newt  considered the idea of hiding behind a nearby pillar, but there didn’t seem to be much point now that they had clearly been seen.

 

“Holy Lewis on a stick,” O’Connell breathed out, all starry-eyed like he had just discovered the secret of the universe.

 

Tina opened her mouth, clearly about to say something, but then seemed to think better of it and closed it again firmly.

 

“Yes?” Graves inquired. Somehow, he managed to sound both dry and downright threatening in the span of one syllable.

 

“You two are living together,” O’Connell murmured, sounding awed. “Well, of course. I didn’t know what I expected, but _the two of you are living together_ –”

 

“Is there some purpose to your absence from the crime scene— _both_ of you at the same time—or are you here just to make redundant observations?”

 

“No, sir,” Tina quickly came to the rescue. “We’re here to deliver our progress report.”

 

Graves nodded and entered his office. Newt trailed after him, marvelling at how the Director’s presence seemed to make the room come to life. A different kind of magic hummed in the air as layers of protection wards fell away, replaced by a new spell, less rigid but no less dangerous for it. Newt recognised it at once; _blood magic_ , very old, very powerful, and very dangerous—and the same thing that had attacked him last night.

 

Newt resisted an urge to touch his neck and lingered near the door, staying out of the way as the two Aurors followed them into the room.  “There’s nothing on today’s _Ghost_ ,” O’Connell was saying, taking a folded newspaper from under his arm.

 

“Really?” Graves sounded disinterested at best—and way too close. It took Newt a moment to realise that the man was now standing right next to him. His face burned as he was helped out of his coat, as if this was something they did every day. With a small hand wave, it joined Graves’s on the coat rack, the striking blue looking so out of place next to solemn, elegant black.

 

From the corner of his eyes, he could see the two Aurors sharing a look and a hidden grin.

 

“Or in the _Journal,_ or _West Coast Quill_ , for that matter,” O’Connell continued after clearing his throat. “Odd, don’t you think?”

 

“Perhaps they’ve decided to use their common sense at last,” Graves suggested, still in the same indifferent tone.

 

O’Connell made a sound through his nose. “As if. Come on, Boss. What did you do exactly?”

 

Graves took his seat behind the desk and shrugged. “Nothing much, actually. I simply reminded them that a responsible choice had its merits. As it turns out, even newspaper editors can make a responsible choice sometimes.”

 

“Which means you leaned on them until they said yes.”

 

“They know the way the wind blows, that’s all.”

 

“Also the fact that they gain nothing by pissing you off.”

 

“That too, I suppose,” Graves agreed with a smirk. “Still, they won’t hold it off for long. Only until tomorrow, so there better be progress soon.”

 

Tina stepped toward a map of New York City on a large board that spanned nearly one half side of the room. “We began a thorough sweep last night—in pairs, from the water’s edge going inland.” She proceeded to describe their method: by dividing the vast area they had to cover into smaller sections. Every pair was responsible for one section, checking every warehouse and closed space, every nook and cranny, both visually and magically. It was, she explained, a rather time-consuming process but in the end much safer for the Aurors, especially now with the possibility that they might find more than one creature in hiding.

 

“With nonstop shifts, we’ve been able to make good progress in the last twelve hours, but nothing has turned up so far,” she concluded at the end of her report.

 

“Not even the smallest indication that one of these creatures may be in the area?”

 

“No. Which is strange, isn’t it? All four bodies were found in Brooklyn Heights, less than a mile from each other, so logic dictates that the creatures should be hiding somewhere in the area.”

 

“Which leads us to another possibility that we haven’t really considered before,” O’Connell picked up the thread. “That perhaps the bodies were deliberately moved there.”

 

Graves was frowning when he turned his attention to Newt. “You said beasts of any kind invariably left a trace. Which means there should’ve been at least some left at the crime scenes.”

 

Newt hesitated. “Well, yes.”

 

“So is it possible that the victims had been killed elsewhere and then dumped at the docks?”

 

“It’s possible.” Newt paused, frowning. “But that assumption leads to a whole different host of complications. The biggest of all, it implies that someone is _using_ quintapeds to kill these people. With deliberate intent. That is… rather hard to believe, to be honest. These are not creatures that can be controlled.”

 

Their eyes met. Newt could see the exact moment the Director’s mind turned to his case and its content, and the fact that they were—or at least _looked_ —almost docile.

 

“But the scenario is not impossible?” Graves pressed on.

 

“No,” Newt admitted reluctantly. After what he had revealed last night, any other answer was impossible.

 

“And it perfectly explains why we haven’t been able to find any trace of these creatures,” O’Connell pointed out, excitement evident in his tone. “Because someone has been cleaning up.”

 

“Perhaps, but in the end it’s still pure speculation,” Graves interjected. “We’ll leave it as such for now, at least until the sweep is done. Now talk to me about the No-Maj victim and how in Morgana’s name he could end up where he was.”

 

Tina picked up the explanation once more. Newt tried to pay attention, but his mind was busy pursuing the complications that dogged the new theory. He had spoken the truth; controlling a beast like the quintaped was practically impossible. In fact, most creatures in his care were not so different. Many of them were probably accustomed to him enough to tolerate his presence, but using them as a weapon was another matter entirely.

 

For one thing, beasts did not kill unless they had to. They had none of the needless cruelty that often plagued humankind. The only way to make them act differently was to overrule this instinct, to train obedience into the creature so completely that obeying the order became second nature. Except such a thing could not be accomplished in a short time. Which meant that there was some extensive planning involved. Months, probably even years.

 

And then there was the age factor. For any creature to be reliably trained in anything, the younger they were, then the better the results would be. Not only that the possibility of the lesson taking root would be higher, they could also learn much more quickly.

 

And this was where Newt’s thoughts started heading to some really dark directions.

 

“Newt? 

 

Tina’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He quickly looked up, flustered.

 

“Sorry, I wasn’t... what was the question?”

 

Tina’s concerned expression turn into kind amusement. “I was just asking if you had a different theory about the No-Maj victim.”

 

“He was a very regular accountant working in a very regular shipping company, if you happened to miss it earlier,” O’Connell added in a dry voice.

 

“Oh.” Newt bit his lips and tried not to glance in Graves’s direction. “An accountant?”

 

“It’s someone who deals with bookkeeping and money stuffs–”

 

“I know,” Newt hastily said. “It’s just, a little unexpected. But what about his connection to the magical world?” When no reply was forthcoming, he added, even more embarrassed, “Sorry, I know I should’ve listened, but my mind was on some other things.”

 

The others traded glances between themselves, which didn’t exactly improve Newt’s anxiety. “There was no connection,” Tina finally said. “He was just a No-Maj who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

 

“Oh.” Newt faltered, surprised. “I see. It’s possible, I suppose.”

 

“Why do you think there might be a connection?” Graves spoke at last, his tone perfectly neutral.

 

Newt shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he replied awkwardly, looking at the Director’s tie. “I just thought that he might be involved in some way.”

 

“But _why_ did you think that?”

 

“Only an idea. I mean, one of the reasons why the existence of wizards and witches can remain a secret is largely because Muggles instinctively avoid magic, right? The presence of magic makes them nervous. And in the case of quintapeds, or any magical beast of that size, the amount of magic oozing from them should be more than enough to drive away any Muggle from their vicinity.”

 

“You’re saying that this No-Maj shouldn’t have even come close enough to a quintaped to be attacked,” O’Connell said slowly.

 

“Theoretically, yes. And it actually goes the other way around too. Magical beasts usually avoid Muggles. No-Majs. They’ll go for wizards, if you know what I mean. So maybe–”

 

“The dead No-Maj had something to do with this,” Graves concluded with a scowl on his face, so deep that Newt almost felt sorry for suggesting the theory in the first place. “He was involved.”

 

“But that’s impossible,” O’Connell objected. “If the No-Maj had known about our existence, we would’ve been exposed by now. Why on earth had he kept it a secret? It doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“I can think of a few reasons,” Graves said grimly, “and all are miles away from good. The fact that he’s found dead–”

 

The rest of Graves’s words were swallowed by a train of loud, panicked knocks. Newt turned around just in time to see the door swing open to reveal the stocky built of Auror Scherz.

 

“We found it!” The man barged into the room, his face shiny with sweat and excitement. “Sorry, sir, for intruding, but we _found_ it!”

 

“Where?” Graves asked sharply.

 

“South Street.”

 

“Manhattan’s South Street?” Tina repeated, astonished. “But that’s the other side of the river!”

 

O’Connell was the first who turned to Newt. “They can’t swim, right?”

 

“Not that I know of, but–”

 

“Save it for later,” Graves ordered, rising to his feet. “We’re going down there.”

 

 

–

 

 

A theory and the application of it were often two vastly different things.

 

Newt found himself reflecting on this unfortunate morsel of truth as he silently followed the Aurors from the nearest Apparition point. A large group of No-Majs were gathering outside the harbour entrance, kept in order by a couple of harried-looking policemen. None gave them any notice as they made their way past the grumbling crowd.

 

An enormous magical barrier had been raised to secure the area, shimmering gently in the late morning sun. Auror Cavallone came to meet them as soon as they had entered. She looked tense, but still briskly efficient.

 

“It’s the new girl, Moralez,” she addressed Graves at once, falling into steps with him. “She was following a lead for the Gump case and, according to her, the person she was supposed to talk to fled in this direction. Absolutely gave her a fright when the creature popped out of a warehouse.”

 

“What in Lewis’s name was she doing, investigating a lead alone?” Graves retorted, clearly irritated.

 

“She wanted to make an impression, Boss, you know how it is with new recruits,” Cavallone said dryly. “At least she’s unharmed, just badly shaken.”

 

“And the person she was chasing?”

 

“Much less fortunate. Unfortunately.”

 

From the corner of his eyes, Newt could see both Tina and Auror O’Connell wincing slightly.

 

“And the creature?” Graves continued. “Is it really a quintaped?”

 

“No doubt about it, sir. It looks exactly as Mr Scamander has described.”

 

“Where is it right now?”

 

“It had retreated inside when we arrived.”

 

Auror Cavallone quickly led them to a big warehouse facing the river. Two Aurors stood on guard in front of the wide entrance, their stiff shoulders relaxing slightly at the sight of the Director.

 

The first thing Newt noticed as soon as they stepped inside was a sharp alcoholic smell. It was like walking into a distillery, the smell strong enough to fill even the vast, lofty space and making him a little dizzy. He blinked a few times to adjust his eyes to the gloom inside the warehouse.

 

They approached cautiously, slow, careful steps that crushed bits of broken glass under their boots. Remnants of the vials of firewhisky, Newt realised. About twenty or so Aurors stood in the middle of the building, forming a half-circle. They had their wands out, pointed and ready, but no one moved so much as a muscle, as if an _Immobulus_ spell had fallen over the place.

 

Newt knew why, even before he could come close enough to see the dark, hulking mass in the opposite corner of the building. The magic rolling off the creature would have been enough to stop even a horde of rampaging erumpents in their track—but there was something else at work here, more than just magic. Something deeper and more primal.

 

Fear.

 

His stomach lurched as he inched closer. The quintaped was _large_. Much larger than the one he had met in Bilbao. Most likely a female—and clearly a very hungry one; otherwise, she wouldn’t have left the safety of her hiding place earlier, not even for a chance of having a decent meal of two wizards. In broad daylight, the risk had been too great, not to mention with so many Muggles around.

 

A low, growling sound rose from the shadowed corner.

 

Everyone froze. There was a glimpse of great yellow-white fangs as the quintaped stirred, first sluggish, as if confused, but fast falling victim to agitation. Her many feet started thumping and scraping restlessly on the cement floor, as if there were a fire lit under her massive body. Her growls grew louder. Angrier. If Newt hadn’t known any better, he would’ve thought that her agitation had come from sensing a threat. And those who sit at the top of nature’s pyramid do not suffer threats gladly.

 

Except he _did_ know better.

 

Newt came to this realisation too late. The quintaped had moved, frighteningly agile for her bulk as she headed straight for the brightest, strongest source of magic around. Graves wore the sweep of his magic like an extension of himself, a beacon of pure power—much too irresistible to a creature feeding both on flesh and magic.

 

The chaos that followed was deafening. Screams crashed against echoes of trampling feet as they all raced to the entrance. Some managed to Apparate, but most were too distraught to even _think_ of Apparating, let alone manage the necessary focus.

 

“No! No, please!”

 

A terrified scream rose above the cacophony. Newt snapped out of his daze and turned just in time to see a young Auror being grabbed by the quintaped. The utter horror in his face was enough to make Newt’s stomach roil, ice spidering down his back. Everyone who was still in the building froze, ensnared by the horrifying spectacle.

 

Newt reached inside his sleeve, but before he could release Beatrice, the quintaped had lost her grip on her captive. The work of a quick, clean Summoning Spell; Newt didn’t have to look around to know who had cast it.

 

And Graves did not stop there. Once he had had his Auror safe, his magic roared and wreaked confusion inside the warehouse, tumbling crates filled with metal plates and tinned food. The resulting chaos was not only impressive, but also deafening.

 

But the quintaped didn’t pause. If anything, the racket only served to enrage her even more. She let out a roar, easily smashing everything standing in her way with her powerful limbs.

 

“Sir, we should retreat!” Tina frantically urged. She and O’Connell had returned to help the injured Auror, taking an arm each.

 

“Get him out of here,“ Graves ordered, not taking his eyes off the quintaped.

 

“But–!”

 

Tina’s protest disappeared along with herself and the other two Aurors. The tip of Graves’s wand glimmered white, having sent them out of the building. If he had been a beacon before, now he was a brightly burning inferno. And he made no indication to escape.

 

Newt’s heart plummeted.

 

He didn’t think. Before he knew what he was doing, he had Apparated in front of the Director and fell to his hands and knees.

 

“Newt!”

 

Sharp pain bit into his palms. Newt hissed; he had forgotten that there were broken glass and splinters everywhere. “Stay back,” he said loudly, gritting his teeth when the shards dug deeper into his flesh. He could only hope that Graves would listen to him.

 

The creature hesitated, her focus shifting between them.

 

Newt bared his teeth, mimicking her sound, and started moving. Slowly. Away from Graves. The yellow eyes followed him and Newt was careful to maintain eye contact, even through a haze of tears. The pain in his hands helped to centre his focus.

 

She edged closer, near soundless. Newt mirrored the action, only backward. His heart was pounding wildly, but he kept his chin up, head held high. From the corner of his eyes, he could see his case. It lay too far out of reach. He moved too slowly, maintaining the precarious stalemate. Still, as long as he did not use magic, there was a chance that he could–

 

The stalemate broke.

 

The quintaped moved, rushing at him. Newt leapt to the side and narrowly avoided being crushed by the powerful jaws. She made another leap—and again he escaped by a hair’s breadth.

 

She paused, suddenly wary. Two steps away, Newt was trembling. This close, he could smell the odour of rotting flesh that always came with carnivores. It had trimmed his nightmares once; now it sank into his consciousness and gripped him in terror. There was no room left in his head but for that crippling dread. Facts and plans had vanished. Only instinct remained, coiling in his muscles, shaped by years of experience.

 

The firewhisky.

 

Newt moved, shoulders angled down as he withdrew his right hand to find the pocket of his coat. Beatrice crawled out of his sleeve into the dark, safe depth; in return, a half-full bottle of firewhisky tumbled out. It landed on the floor with a dull thunk.

 

The quintaped stirred. Newt grabbed the neck of the bottle and threw it past her looming bulk. It shattered, dark amber bleeding on cement.

 

The moment she turned to chase the familiar smell, Newt made a leap to grab his case and flick the lid open. A quick _Accio_ summoned what was left of the bottle into the case; not much, but enough to lure a proud predator angry at being toyed. She lunged at him—and straight into the case.

 

Newt banged the lid shut and pushed himself on top of the case as he set all the Locking Charms in place. Silently, he thanked Theseus for his long lectures only this morning. They had successfully turned his attention to other things (such as preparing the quarantine area and stocking it with as many bottles of firewhisky as he could find) until Theseus had finished his rant.

 

“Are you alright?” Graves had suddenly appeared at his side.

 

“Yes,” Newt said quickly, rising to his feet—or trying to, except his knees were too weak to do much more than wobble. He sat down again, suddenly exhausted, but it wasn’t until the other man had taken his hands that Newt realised he was shaking.

 

“I’m alright,” he tried to say when Graves began with spells to clean and heal the cuts on his palms. He wanted to explain that this happened sometimes, after facing a particularly ferocious beast. In fact, it was a very natural reaction and had nothing to do at all with any old trauma. But the words wouldn’t form in his throat, and so Newt sat in numb silence until Graves had finished. Until Graves’s arm came around him. Until the world shrank into this warm little space in which he could begin to feel safe.

 

Slowly, tension started to bleed out of him, first a trickle, then fast becoming a flood, making his entire body shake. Graves was talking now, quiet words stitched together by a soothing timbre. Newt could barely understand the words, but he clung to the sound of Graves’s voice as it wrapped gently around his ears, as gentle as the steady strokes up and down his back.

 

“Sorry,” he heard himself mutter a moment later.

 

The hand stopped stroking. “What could you _possibly_ be sorry for?”

 

Newt did not answer. He noticed, for the first time, the sound of shuffling feet. Some of the Aurors had returned.

 

“Your Auror.” He raised his head, suddenly anxious. “Is he–”

 

“He’ll be fine,” Graves assured him. “They’re taking care of him. Are you hurt somewhere else?”

 

“I don’t think so.” His muscles ached in quite a few places, but the material of his clothes were at least thick enough to protect the rest of his body from either shards or splinters.

 

Graves’s hands rose, clasping Newt’s face between them. “You sure?”

 

Newt nodded, words caught in his throat. Graves flashed him a smile.

 

“Good.”

 

“Will you,” Newt fumbled between words, hating how shaky he still sounded, “will you come into the case with me? Just for a bit. I might need help with the… I’ve secured the quarantine area as best as I can, but if you perhaps can take a look at the spells or…”

 

“Of course.” Graves’s arm tightened momentarily around him. “Anything you need.”

 

Newt managed a weak smile. “Thank you.”

 

“No, thank _you_ ,” Graves declared, a little forcefully. “You saved my life, Newt.”

 

“Not only yours,” he muttered into the Director’s shoulder. “The quintaped’s too. She would’ve been put to death if she had injured the Director of Magical Security. So.”

 

Graves laughed, the sound so warm and delightful that it lingered in Newt’s ears and seeped into his heart.

 

_**End Chapter 7** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One down, two to go. More explanation about the quintaped in the next chapter, but before we continue with the case, there's a family gathering to attend ;)


	8. Chapter 8

Newt spent the rest of the day in his suitcase.

 

He kept himself busy—doing his regular rounds, mending the broken fences in the erumpent habitat, giving the mooncalves a long overdue bath, restocking his depleted potions and poultice in the storage—all the while keeping an eye on the newest addition in their midst.

 

In the quarantine area, the quintaped had finally fallen asleep after an excess of firewhisky and one whole cauldron of sleeping potion. The violent, angry magic receded to a dull hum in the background. It was an immense relief to everyone, including Newt. The number of wards placed around the area was almost ridiculous, and Graves had added at least a dozen earlier, some so complex and obscure that Newt had never even heard of them—but better safe than sorry, the Director had said, and Newt fervently agreed. It was one thing to love magical beasts. To treat them all like pets and underestimate their awesome power, however, was plain stupid.

 

They had brought the case into Graves’s office and the Director soon left afterwards to deal with the fallout of the capture. Newt was mostly relieved that Graves had not asked him to join him to speak in front of the Congress. His confrontation with the quintaped still left him a little wobbly. The last thing he wanted was another confrontation, this time with a roomful of Inquisitors. 

 

It was almost midnight when Newt finally stopped working—and this only because Dougal had finally managed to tackle him to the ground. The attack was well-timed and he landed on soft grass. Then the twin mooncalves, Jerry and Sally, rushed at him and appropriated his lap, making sure that he couldn’t stand up without displacing them. Niff followed by climbing up his back and clung to the top of his head like an oversized beret. Then Pickett delivered the _coup de grâce_ , pulling his left ear and screeching a stream of condemnation right into his eardrum.

 

“Yes, alright, yes!” Newt said helplessly, half laughing. “I yield. I’m defeated. Crushed. Vanquished. But this is so unfair. Five against one, very unsportsmanlike.”

 

None of them appeared to be very interested in the notion of sportsmanship. Pickett picked up his tirade a moment later and the mooncalves continued to blink soulfully at him. Dougal turned away, mightily unimpressed, and disappeared into thin air.

 

Newt sighed and resigned himself to his fate.

 

Before long, a few other creatures started to join in. Mona the erumpent sat close behind him so he could lean against her bulk. Rex the baby graphorn had given his parents a slip and was now lounging at Newt’s feet, for once ignoring the noisy pack of Diricawls. Niff, who had relocated to Mona’s rump, was busy plaiting all kinds of jewellery in Newt’s hair—strictly on loan, they both understood. Then Dougal reappeared with a cup of tea, which he firmly thrusted into Newt’s hand, before vanishing once more. Between the tea and the feel of Niff’s careful paws in his hair and the warm comforting weight in his lap and around him, Newt could feel himself starting to wind down.

 

“You look very comfortable.”

 

Newt almost threw the mooncalves out of his lap—but Sally was dozing peacefully and, well. It needed a man a hundred times crueller than Newt Scamander to disturb her sleep. Helpless, he could only watch as Graves approached with a wide smile on his face, led by Dougal.

 

_The traitor._

 

“Sorry about this, they’re, ah…” Newt waved his hands weakly, trying to pretend that he wasn’t wearing glittering jewels in his hair. Niff (the little bugger) had predictably made himself scarce at the first hint of Graves’s arrival.

 

“Your little pest again, I assume?”

 

“He’s not– well, I suppose he’s a bit of a pest,” Newt admitted with a sigh, hopelessly trying to pull the ornaments out of his hair. Most were clinging too stubbornly, coiled between the strands.

 

Graves lowered himself to his knees and touched a twist of necklace. “Be still.”

 

Even without the warning, Newt wouldn’t have been able to do otherwise. Graves’s proximity had its usual debilitating effect. Not unlike a quintaped, Newt reflected helplessly; they did make worthy adversaries. He stayed still, pretending that his heart were not trying to beat itself out of his chest, or that his eyes didn’t linger on a strong, sturdy neck, the rise and dip that followed the determined line. Graves had removed his coat and jacket and rolled his sleeves. Despite the tiredness etched on his face, he was smiling.

 

“Do I want to know where these came from?” There was a pile now on the grass next to his knees. A deep emerald spied among the diamonds, and Newt could almost imagine Niff prowling Hogwarts’s tunnels and corridors, stealing the colour of Slytherin.

 

“Well, even if you want to know, I won’t be able to answer,” he replied honestly. “He already had them when we met.”

 

“That sounds ominous.”

 

“None of them are cursed.”

 

“All the same.” Graves paused, but before he could continue, a very timely interruption came in the shape of Dougal bringing a second cup of tea, followed by a tin of Turkish Delights. He looked both surprised and amused, and Newt couldn’t help a smile himself.

 

“The hospitality of your case is very impressive, Mr Scamander.”

 

“It’s all Dougal, really,” Newt said fondly. “He basically runs the place when I’m not around. And sometimes when _I’m_ around.”

 

“Then I drink to you, Master Dougal,” Graves said, raising his cup solemnly. Dougal gave him a formal nod in return and then sat down next to Newt with his knitting. He would make a wonderful father, Newt thought wistfully. Once they had a chance to go to China, he would look for the other Demiguises and let Dougal go.

 

“So,” Graves spoke again a few moments later, “how’s the quintaped?”

 

“Asleep for now.” Newt nodded in the direction of the quarantine area. “Which, I have to admit, is a good thing. She was pretty agitated earlier and it rather upset the others. Best to leave her alone in peace to get used to her new surroundings.”

 

“Is that why they’re gathering here?” Graves looked curiously at the creatures lounging around them. He seemed especially taken with Jerry and Sally, who were returning his attention openly from Newt’s lap.

 

“Well, they’re just a bit worried.”

 

“And you?” The sudden shift of focus surprised Newt. “What about you?”

 

“What about me? I’m perfectly fine.”

 

There was something in the way Graves looked at someone. Newt had noticed it a couple of times, especially when the look had found him. It was as if the whole world had narrowed into this one line, linking two flickers of existence and nothing else. It must be, he imagined, a very effective interrogation method. The Director could pry even the deepest, darkest secrets out of the most hardened criminals with that long, penetrating look.

 

“You seemed quite affected this morning,” Graves said, giving him that look.

 

“Oh, that.” Newt cleared his throat and tried for a shrug. “Yes, I mean, it’s impossible not to be affected, of course—this is a _quintaped_. Her presence alone is overwhelming enough.”

 

“I noticed,” Graves said dryly. “My Aurors literally couldn’t move in front of it.”

 

“Her,” Newt corrected patiently. “And don’t worry, it’s a normal reaction. Quintapeds, or any other creature of that size, are already daunting enough due to their sheer bulk. If you never meet anything like them, it’s no surprise that you’ll feel a bit overwhelmed. In most cases, it’s nothing short of paralyzing, and doubly worse if one has no idea what to do.”

 

“That’s why what you did was really impressive.”

 

Newt could feel his cheeks heating up, but stubbornly maintained eye contact. “Did that convince you to set up a proper Beast Division?

 

It made Graves smirk. “You’ll never let this go, will you?”

 

“Not until you say yes.”

 

“Good.” The smirk softened into something a little more private. “I’d hate it if you were to beat a path out of town now that you’ve got the quintaped in your case.”

 

Newt frowned. “I wouldn’t do that. Unless, of course, I have a very good reason to leave.”

 

“Then I’ll make sure not to give you one,” Graves declared in mock sombreness and took another sip from his cup. He didn’t look like he enjoyed it very much; Newt made a note to learn something about coffee and keep some in the case.

 

“So about what happened earlier,” Graves continued after a moment’s silence. “Was it, was _she_ trying to attack me or was that just my overexcited imagination?”

 

“Not attack you exactly.” Newt paused, choosing his words carefully. “It’s your magic, it… it just stands out. If you know what I mean. Like a beacon. My guess is she had already felt cornered, surrounded by so many Aurors, and then you walked in and... to predators like her, it’s only logical to subdue the biggest threat first.”

 

Graves winced. “And then I went and challenged her anyway.”

 

“You were helping your Auror,” Newt reasoned gently. “Besides, I should’ve said something about it before we went in.”

 

Graves shook his head. “It’s not your fault. I’m aware about my magic and usually I take care not flaunt it like that. But I wasn’t thinking clearly. And to be honest, her presence was really something else. Then Reinhardt got hurt, and so.” He frowned, clearly disappointed at himself.

 

“How is Auror Reinhardt?

 

“Shaken, a few fractured bones, but overall very lucky, considering what happened.” He looked at Newt, grim and sober. “It _was_ stupid, wasn’t it? Trying to face her head on like that?”

 

“Not stupid,” Newt hurriedly said. “Only... a little uninformed, perhaps?”

 

Graves laughed, his entire face beautifully lit up. Newt’s heart did that stupid little thing it always did whenever Graves laughed. He looked down at the sleeping Sally, hiding a secret smile.

 

“Well, I guess if I have to owe my life to someone, then it may as well be you.”

 

This time, the words made Newt frown. “Please. You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t do it to make you feel indebted to me or... It’s truly nothing of the kind. It’s just… it’s the right thing to do.”

 

A smile spread across Graves’s face. “The right thing to do, is it?”

 

Newt looked away, pretending to focus on his cooling cup. “So,” he cleared his throat, “how did it go? What did the Congress say?”

 

“Pretty well, considering. There were a few who insisted on execution, but I used your argument—that it’s only the nature of the creature when she feels threatened, and that the real culprit is the people who brought her into the country. Luckily, the President agreed with me. She thought capital punishment was ridiculous.”

 

Newt was surprised. “Did she really?”

 

“I think the fact that you’re here influenced her decision,” Graves pointed out with a wry smile. “In the end, it was agreed that as long as the quintaped was removed from the country in a fortnight, they wouldn’t pursue the matter. Any word from your Magizoologist friend?”

 

“Miss Darrell Battersby, and yes.” Newt fumbled in his pocket for a scrap of parchment he had received earlier. “Her owl just got here half an hour ago. Luckily for us, she’s in Quebec right now. It’ll be two or three days at least before she can conclude her business there, but she has agreed to take the quintaped back to the Isle of Drear. Very eager, in fact, for a chance to observe a live specimen in close quarters.”

 

“I thought you said the place was Unplottable.”

 

“It is, and she’s one of the only four people in the world who know exactly where it is. Of course the Ministry will have to be notified. At least the head of my division. But he and Miss Battersby are good friends, so I don’t think there’ll be much difficulty there.”

 

Graves nodded. “Good. I’ve sent an official dispatch to the British Ministry myself—your brother, specifically. It’s mostly a formality at this point, but I think he has to know, especially if there are quintapeds running loose outside the island.”

 

Newt smothered a wince. He could only imagine Theseus’s reaction when he found out. “I suppose it can’t be helped,” he conceded with a sigh. “If someone can just smuggle a quintaped or two out of the island, then obviously we have a problem.”

 

“Precisely.” Graves was silent for a moment. “Do you have any idea how the quintaped got into the country?”

 

Newt leaned back, absently stroking Mona’s thick, patterned skin. “You mean, do I know who smuggled her into the country?”

 

Graves smiled. “I wouldn’t put it quite so bluntly.”

 

Newt returned the smile, if rather weakly. “All the same, the answer to both questions are I don’t know. Truly.”

 

“But you have a theory.”

 

“Maybe.” Newt reached for a piece of Turkish Delight and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly as the rose fragrance filled his mouth, mind in a whirl. His theory was only that: a theory. Difficult though it might be, it was not impossible to prove, but in order to do so, he would have to involve many of his contacts—most of whom belonging to professions far from legal in this country. To share his theory with the Director of Magical Security meant exposing them to MACUSA. Newt might not have much problem with running headlong into troubles, but implicating others and risking their livelihoods were something else entirely.

 

“Yes?” Graves prompted, still waiting.

 

Newt shook his head. “But I’m not sure. I have no proof.”

 

“Maybe I can help.”

 

“I don’t see how.”

 

For a moment, it looked like Graves was about to press him but then clearly thought better of it. “Will you tell me when you’re sure?” he asked instead.

 

“I know some people who might be able to shed some light on the matter,” Newt told him, avoiding a direct answer. “The problem is, I don’t know how welcome I’ll be now after the, well, after the _rumour_.”

 

Graves’s eyebrows rose. “You mean the rumour that we’re dating.”

 

Newt avoided his eyes. “Yes. Considering your position, I imagine it will travel quite far.”

 

“And you think that if your… _friends_ have heard about it, then they’ll probably suspect your motives when you try to approach them?”

 

“More or less.” Newt bit his lip, staving off a smile. “We’re rather a suspicious lot.”

 

“I’d imagine,” Graves said dryly, but his eyes were soft. 

 

“To be fair, the position is not without its benefits.”

 

“I’m very glad to hear that.”

 

Newt flushed. “I didn’t mean– I only meant, a rumour like that, well. It could be a currency. A powerful one.”

 

“And you think you can use it to confirm your theory?”

 

“If I play my cards right.”

 

A smirk spread slowly across Graves’s face. “I wonder how many people know what a terrifying creature you actually are.”

 

Newt huffed a laugh. “I don’t think anyone has ever used that word to describe me.”

 

“Inconceivable,” Graves declared in a tone that sounded more like ‘fuck them’. Newt found himself subduing another treacherous grin. He felt giddy, the weight of the day unravelling under the spell of one word. It was incredible how easily Graves did it, smoothing and tangling the stitches of his emotions, almost as easily as breathing; it was a kind of magic in its own right. Newt realised that he was going to miss this when their arrangement came to an end.

 

“That must be a very unpleasant thought in your head.”

 

Newt looked up, startled. He found himself the object of intent scrutiny. “Very unpleasant,” Graves continued, a smirk curling the corners of his lips, “or very inappropriate.”

 

“I can assure you,” Newt started, between indignant and mortified, but then decided that a fervent denial would probably sound precisely that, a fervent denial. And he couldn’t exactly admit out loud what he had been thinking, could he? “It’s just… this one difficulty,” he finally settled for an entirely new topic. “How to bring the quintaped back to the Isle of Drear as safely as possible. Crossing the Atlantic will definitely be a problem.”

 

“I guess a Portkey is out of the question?”

 

“Quite. Portkey spells are, well, aggressive. Even if she’s unconscious, her natural magic will automatically repel the Portkey’s. I’m afraid a long journey by ship is the only way.”

 

Graves frowned. “That will take at least a week.”

 

“At the _very_ least. And to make sure of safe transport, we’ll have to keep the quintaped sedated. Except I don’t think a regular sleeping potion will be enough for a creature her size, especially considering the length of the sea voyage.”

 

“The Draught of Living Death,” Graves suddenly said.

 

Newt blinked. “That’s what I have in mind. Do you know where I can procure some sloth brains in New York?”

 

“About that,” Graves was grinning now, “I’ve already asked Professor Sharma, the Potion Master at Ilvermorny, to make the draught. When we were working on the quarantine, you talked about the sleeping potion being ineffective, so I thought the draught could be a solution. He will come down in the morning with all the necessary ingredients.”

 

“Oh,” Newt was surprised but pleased. “That’s really good news. Thank you.”

 

“The professor went by your notes for a rough estimate of the dose—which he praised, by the way. And he happens to know your name.”

 

“Does he?” Newt blushed a little. “The notes, they’re still incomplete, though. Some of my papers are still missing. Niff, I think, I made the mistake of writing in melted silver once, but it was an emergency and there were no other alternatives. And I haven’t had the time to make a closer observation on the quintaped. There are several points still in debate… what?”

 

“Nothing.” Graves shook his head, clearly amused. “You’ll have all the time you need to write a more comprehensive report next week.”

 

The mention of the report reminded Newt to a troubling point which he had unconsciously avoided thinking the entire day. And now, he realised that he must mention it to Graves.

 

“The second creature was still out there,” he said carefully, keeping his tone neutral. “Not to mention the snake.”

 

Graves sighed, a wry smile on his lips. “I was hoping that you’d tell me it was over.”

 

“That would be a lie,” Newt murmured conscientiously.

 

“And you’re positive about the existence of this other quintaped?”

 

“As certain as I can be.” Newt nodded at the direction of the quarantine area. “My guess is she is the quintaped who attacked the first two victims, but not the latter two. Miss Battersby will be able to offer her expert opinion when she arrives.”

 

Graves was silent for some time. Newt waited, playing with a tuft of fur at the top of Sally’s head.

 

“If I say,” Graves finally spoke, sounding so cautious that Newt looked up in alarm, “that is, if I _ask_ that you withhold the information about the second quintaped and the snake from your official report, will you do it?”

 

“You want me to keep them a secret?”

 

“That’s the size of it.”

 

“But why?”

 

Graves held his gaze. “To avoid panic. To calm the Congress down. To give closure to the victims’ families.”

 

“But they’re still out there.”

 

“I know.” This time, he reached for Newt’s hand, holding it gently in the warm cradle of his fingers. “I believe you, Newt.”

 

Newt almost pulled away. The flinch, too, was checked in time, only traces of it crawling under his skin. He was no stranger to manipulation attempts, but Graves’s words bled warmth in his chest, enough to cover the sudden bite of hurt. Most of it at least. The rest was too feeble to do much except cling to the edges of his smile.

 

“Very well,” he agreed quietly, withdrawing his hand as naturally as possible. “I will not include them in my report—but with one condition.”

 

“Name it.”

 

“You will allow me to keep looking for them.”

 

“I doubt I can forbid you from doing anything,” Graves said dryly. “For what it’s worth, we’re not going to stop looking either. Most of my Aurors already know the truth, so do Examiner Hambleton and his team. I promise you, this isn’t going to get buried. Although I wouldn’t be lying if I said I hoped there wouldn’t be any more victim.”

 

Newt nodded. It was the best he could get, which, to be frank, was a lot better than he had expected. “Thank you.”

 

“The least I can do for the man who saved MACUSA.”

 

Newt fought down an urge to roll his eyes. “Exaggeration is the worst kind of flattery.”

 

“Only if it _were_ an exaggeration.”

 

Newt opened his mouth, bursting with reproach on empty flatteries, but quickly closed it again. Further argument, he realised grimly, would only spur the incorrigible man. A change of plan, then.

 

“Will you wait here for a bit?” he asked politely—and then deposited the mooncalves into Graves’s lap. “Thank you.”

 

Newt bit down a grin at the flabbergasted look on Graves’s face, and quickly made his escape before the other man could protest. Dougal followed him and together they headed for the makeshift kitchen. It was a simple arrangement of a small portable stove, a preparation table, a shelf stocked with tea and spices, and a cooling chest.

 

“We’ve run out of eggs,” Newt sighed. “I’ll buy some tomorrow.”

 

Dougal made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort.

 

When they returned with supper, Graves was still watching Sally (who was blinking softly at him) with the kind of intensity more suitable to a particularly complicated dark magic.

 

“Newt.” His relief was palpable. “Will you… please?”

 

Still grinning, Newt complied, replacing the mooncalf with a plate. Sally gave the buttered toast and fried tomatoes a sniff and quickly reared back before skipping away in search of her twin.

 

“She’s not dangerous, I promise.”

 

“No, of course not,” Graves said, apologetic. “I’m just not good with animals.”

 

“Unlike with dark wizards?”

 

It made the Director laugh. “Dark wizards are far less terrifying, believe me,” he said wryly, and then turned his attention to his plate. “You really don’t have to.”

 

“I’m hungry,” Newt said cheerfully. “And you really shouldn’t skip meals. It’s an unhealthy habit.”

 

“Because you never skip meals, do you?” Graves’s tone was sceptical.

 

Newt settled for an ambiguous half-truth. “Well, I always try to eat when I feed the others,” he started, but  then realised that behind him, Dougal was shaking his head gravely.

 

Graves was grinning. “At least one of you is honest.”

 

“Traitor,” Newt muttered under his breath.

 

 

–

 

 

He woke up late the next day.

 

Graves had left by the time he emerged from his suitcase. There was a note left on the kitchen table, asking him to drop by the office with his case at noon. Next to it was a stack of pancakes, with blueberries this time. The smell was mouth-watering.

 

After he had eaten, Newt quickly finished his morning round. The quintaped was stirring and he gave her chunks of raw meat carefully laced with firewhisky. It would keep her from being too agitated. A quick glance at The Parchment told him that Theseus was steadily losing his mind with worry and Newt hurried to soothe (and, in some ways, also confirm) his fears. Yes, he was fine, and yes, he was doing some consulting for MACUSA and the quintaped was temporarily residing in his case, but so were dozens of other creatures, and Theseus would be able to see them all himself when he arrived next week, and _yes, for the hundredth time, he was **fine**_.

 

The Aurors were gathering in their shared office, around an enormous three-tiered chocolate cake, when Newt arrived. His appearance was greeted with a huge applause and several wolf whistles, and all he could do was freeze, his face uncomfortably hot.

 

“But… it’s not my birthday?”

 

“Not your birthday, silly.” Tina came to pull him into the circle. “It’s tradition. We always have cake when we’ve wrapped up a case. Come on, you deserve the biggest slice.”

 

Any kind of protestation was futile and he soon found himself in possession of the whole topmost cake, to everyone’s amusement. At least it made Tina laugh. He let her steal a bit of the frosting, glad to see that most of yesterday’s strain had vanished from her face.

 

“So the case is officially closed?”

 

“Officially,” Tina replied in a tone that indicated they both knew otherwise. “The President agreed that it was the best course of action for now. I’m not gonna lie, though. Most of us do hope that this is the end of the matter.”

 

Newt nodded. “It’s understandable.”

 

She gave his arm a small squeeze, smiling. “You’re here to see the boss? He’s still in a meeting, but he told me to bring you to–”

 

“Not so fast.” O’Connell appeared between them and threw an arm around Newt’s shoulders. “At least until you’ve answered this question, Newt. Between you and your beautiful cake, guess which one has become the office trending topic today.”

 

“It was nothing,” Newt muttered, his mortification rising.

 

“See what I mean?” O’Connell nodded solemnly, addressing the other Aurors around them. “He calls that ‘nothing’. _Nothing_. Just imagine how incredibly badass one must be to be able to call a feat like that–”

 

“He saved our hides, Rick,” Tina cut in dryly. “The least you can do is act less like an ass for once and lay down the teasing.”

 

“Right, wise words, Goldstein,” her partner agreed. Newt was just about to heave a sigh of relief when O’Connell turned around and loudly announced to the rest of the room, “Everyone! The Saviour of MACUSA!”

 

Another torrent of applause welcomed this declaration. Tina, mercifully, decided to come to the rescue and drag him out of the office.

 

“Just ignore that idiot. Come on, I’ll take you to meet Professor Sharma.”

 

Newt hurried to follow her, only too eager to escape all the attention. “Is everyone going to be like this from now on?” he asked plaintively.

 

She shot him a grin. “For a while at least, after that stunt you pulled.”

 

“It wasn’t a stunt,” Newt murmured, dejected.

 

“Whatever you called it, it was very impressive. Yesterday could’ve gone a lot differently if you hadn’t done what you did.”

 

Newt sighed but made no reply. Tina led him several floors down until they reached the Magical Objects Department, a long circular hall with many doors on both sides.

 

“The only floor with any empty space in the whole building,” she explained with a sigh. “The President is angling for another expansion, but Congress thinks it’s too soon after the last one.” She made a grimace. “That one almost ended in a disaster, collapsing half of the Obliviation office. Luckily, the emergency spells held and no one got hurt badly.”

 

Newt could well believe it. Expanding the suitcase was already a complicated enough process. He couldn’t imagine trying to expand a building MACUSA’s size, with all its security measures and guarded secrets.

 

“The problem is our original architect passed away some years ago,” Tina continued, leading him down the twists and turns. “No one knows the building better than her. There are plenty other architects, of course, and many are eager to tackle the project. One of them is Elliot Graves, the Director’s cousin. Quite famous in his field, so I’ve been told.”

 

“So he got the project?”

 

“No.” Tina was visibly biting off a smile. “The boss told Picquery to reconsider, saying that his cousin should only get the job on his own merits, not because of the family name or some other connection he might have had. She nearly bit his head off for insinuating that she was anything less than fair. Still, she postponed her decision in the end, so maybe there are some real concerns after all. Oh, here we are.”

 

Professor Sharma was a middle-aged man with thick greying hair and a humorous turn of mouth. They found him surrounded by potion-making apparatus. Four cauldrons of pale purple liquid were simmering side by side on a long table, filling the small chamber with a slightly pungent smell.

 

Tina made the necessary introductions and Newt soon found himself being bombarded by questions of all sorts about the quintaped. The Potion Master proved himself to be fairly knowledgeable on the subject of magical creatures.

 

“Never seen one myself, of course,” he said cheerfully, waving his wand to stir all four cauldrons at once. “But magical creatures have always been somewhat a hobby of mine. My daughter’s too. She’s a Healer now at the Alberta Fleming Hospital, but she did her internship in St. Mungo’s, specialising in dragon pox and creature maladies. I remember her telling me about the one time they had a victim of a quintaped attack. Worse than a dragon’s, she said.”

 

“Perhaps it’s their mouth-to-body ratio,” Newt mused. “All things considered, dragons are relatively proportional, but quintapeds, well, not so much.”

 

“You mean the body is too small for a mouth that big.”

 

“Yes, which means that they can’t use it effectively. In many ways, it’s quite a drawback for a carnivore. They can bite into their prey but they can’t really rip the flesh away. The result can be rather messy, I imagine.”

 

“You two should listen to yourselves,” Tina said loudly, looking slightly green.

 

Newt grinned apologetically. Professor Sharma claimed his curiosity in the name of science, which then prompted a discussion about the exact definition of ‘science’ and what it meant in the Muggle/No-Maj world.

 

Graves arrived ten minutes later.

 

“I really appreciate this, Professor,” he said as they shook hands.

 

A wide smile appeared on the man’s leathery face. “Always a pleasure to have MACUSA indebted to oneself.”

 

“Rest assured, we remember those who help us,” Graves said dryly.

 

“And those who cross you too, I suppose,” Sharma replied in a sly tone. “Although I must admit that I’m rather curious to see this creature myself. The notes you sent me were... intriguing.”

 

Graves raised his eyebrows at Newt. “You haven’t shown him yet?”

 

“I’m not sure where _the case_ stands at the moment,” Newt said pointedly.

 

“On legal grounds, I should say.” Graves snorted, amused. “Especially after all the troubles I’ve gone through. But if it’ll make you feel more comfortable, I can secure another room so we can have the quintaped there.”

 

Newt hesitated. Bringing people into his case had always been a rather troubling point for him. Of the six people he had ever invited in, two were his family, two had been successfully Obliviated, and one was still at large, spreading rumours about him and all the 'treasures' inside his case and generally making Newt’s life a lot more difficult.

 

The last one, of course, was MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security, in many ways the most troubling of all. Strangely enough, it was now the fact that Graves was there with them that finally made his decision.

 

“I’ll take you to the quintaped,” he said to Sharma quietly.

 

The first few minutes inside the case were a different kind of nerve-wracking. Both Sharma and Tina fell into stunned silence as they stepped out of the shed. Newt anxiously led them across the plank leading to the quarantine area. Graves brought up the rear, a steady, calming presence.

 

The quintaped was dozing off when they got there. He saw Tina curbing her instinctive recoil at the sight of the creature. Professor Sharma, on the other hand, was slack-jawed with awe.

 

“You weren’t exaggerating.”

 

“Will four cauldrons of the draught be enough, do you think?”

 

“I have no idea.” Sharma began to circle the quintaped. “Theoretically, perhaps. Dragons may serve as a good comparison, although some of the existing data are wildly contradictory. But if we’re talking about two weeks of journey, not to mention the condition in which it will be travelling–”

 

“She,” Graves corrected evenly. Newt stared at him, surprised as something warm and lovely bloomed in his stomach.

 

“She, of course,” Sharma nodded. “Her size makes more sense now. Although I do wonder if she can be considered enormous or merely of moderate size among her kin–”

 

“The _dose_ , Professor?”

 

“Yes. As I was saying, different situations require different countermeasures. For one, I know nothing about their metabolism, so it’s all guesswork at this point.”

 

“Trial and error then,” Graves said, glancing at Newt.

 

The professor shrugged. “It can’t be helped.”

 

Newt nodded after a moment’s hesitation. “Yes, but maybe we should wait until she wakes up.”

 

“That seems best,” Sharma agreed. “I must say, though, Mr Scamander, what you’ve done here is really impressive. This place, it’s magnificent.”

 

Newt tried not to feel _too_ pleased and failed. There is such warm sincerity in Sharma’s expression that for once, his usual embarrassment is slow to catch up.

 

“Still needs tons of improvement, I’m sure,” he muttered. “I’m afraid I’m not good at complicated spells. Most of the spellworks in this area, for example. They’re Mr Graves’.”

 

“Are they?” The professor sounded amused, turning to Graves. “And _you_ are okay with this?”

 

“Okay is a far too optimistic description for what I think about this entire debacle,” was the wry answer. “But for now, I suppose it will do.”

 

“Going soft with age, aren’t you?” Sharma grinned and gave Newt a pointed glance.

 

Graves’s smirk was flawless. “Think whatever gives you comfort, Professor,” he replied, nonchalant. “However, I do ask you to keep this just between ourselves. For now.”

 

“Of course, sir,” Tina said, still sounding dazed.

 

Sharma waved his hand impatiently. “I’ve kept bigger secrets than this, Graves. Now, Mr Scamander.” He turned his attention to Newt. “Will it be possible for you to give us a tour of this wonderful place? I thought I saw a murtlap on our way here, or was I mistaken…”

 

Newt smiled broadly, but before he could assent, Graves had interrupted. “After lunch, perhaps, Professor. “Mr Scamander and I have an urgent matter to attend to. Rather time-sensitive.”

 

“Is that what you’re calling it these days?” Sharma muttered, shaking his head. “After lunch then.”

 

 

–

 

 

“Where are we going?”

 

Newt shifted his case carefully as he followed Graves out of the building. The street outside MACUSA was always busy, filled with No-Majs of every shape and distinction. None of them so much even as glanced at Graves. This should’ve been a crime (in Newt’s humble opinion) considering how attractive the man was, but in this case, a powerful charm was clearly at fault.

 

Graves took out a beautiful silver pocket watch from inside his jacket. “Lunch, of course. I hope you like Italian. But before that, we’ll make a stop at my tailor.”

 

Newt frowned. “Your tailor?”

 

“For the gathering on Sunday. We’re going to need new dress robes.”

 

Newt’s heart sank. He had completely forgotten about the Graves family gathering. The idea of meeting Graves’s relatives had sounded vaguely ominous back then, but now that the event was just around the corner, it suddenly seemed a lot more frightening.

 

“Is it, um, such a formal event?”

 

“More or less.” Graves smiled and offered him his arm. “Shall we?”

 

A side-along and a short walk later, they arrived at the shop _._ The storefront was no more than a discreet door tucked next to a modest window display of two conventional dress robes (harmless suits, to any No-Maj’s undiscerning eye). It looked almost drab compared to the flamboyant dressmaker next door. Above the window hung a name sign of respectable decrepitude, the gold lettering having long lost its lustre— _Les Gentils, Tailor est. 1824_.

 

As soon as they walked in, an old man with a full head of white hair rushed out from behind the counter. “ _Monsieur_ Graves! What a delightful surprise!”

 

“It’s good to see you too, Jean-Paul. This is rather urgent, I’m afraid.”

 

The tailor shook his head in reproach. “It’s always urgent with you. When will I be given a chance to show you my true skills, hm?”

 

“Your usual skill already exceeds my every expectation,” Graves said with a grin, and then put a hand on Newt’s back. “Today I bring a friend. I trust you’ll be able to see to him as well?”

 

“A pleasure, _Monsieur._ ” Jean-Paul took his hand, but instead of giving him a firm shake, he brought it to his lips. “Any friend of _Monsieur_ Graves is our treasured guest. Will you come this way, please?”

 

They were shown into a small room with comfortable chairs and a charming display of sartorial triumphs mounted on the walls. Newt recognised quite a few names, some of them no doubt Graves’s ancestors. He sat down nervously next to Graves, who had begun a conversation with Jean-Paul about the purpose of his visit. An apprentice brought in a tray of coffee. Another carried an armful of fabric samples and models, all dancing to the tune of the old tailor’s wand. Which was to be reserved or dismissed, however, depended on a nod from Graves’s head. The way everyone hurried to accommodate his wishes told Newt enough of the power and standing of the Graves family.

 

“Sunday morning?” Jean-Paul sighed, shaking his head. “Always such a rush. Very well, if you insist. Shall we begin?”

 

Newt did a rapid calculation in his head as Graves had his measurement taken. The Ministry’s budget for his trip was next to laughable. He had been covering most of the expense by selling Occamies shells and Ashwinder ash. Sometimes Theseus would send him money, but he kept most of it as an emergency fund. He certainly couldn’t spend it on clothes.

 

When his turn came, Newt hesitantly approached the subject with the old tailor, if perhaps, they could come to a discreet arrangement. In broken French, he suggested instalments, maybe over six months? Mr Marchand was all affability. _Monsieur_ Scamander needed not concern himself with such trivialities. Rest assured all would be well. Now, what about this green velvet vest? It would go nicely with his eyes.

 

“You look enchanting in green,” Graves said when Newt stepped out after being pulled and prodded to Jean-Paul’s satisfaction.

 

Newt blushed. “I’m not sure if this is quite suitable for the occasion,” he muttered, tugging at his left sleeve. “Isn’t black better for something formal?”

 

“There’s no reason why we can’t take both.”

 

Newt whipped his head up, alarmed. “No, that’s… I assure you, one is enough.”

 

“There’s the MACUSA ball too, remember?”

 

“I can just wear the same–”

 

“No, that will not do.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because you, my darling, deserve beautiful things. Don’t you agree, Jean-Paul?”

 

“ _Absolument_ ,” the Frenchman said solemnly. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

 

“Try the grey silk too, will you? And the blue striped one.”

 

That was how he ended up with _six_ new sets of clothes, a sleek, elegant wand holster, two pairs of patent leather shoes, and more accessories than he could bring himself to comprehend. No amount of protest could move Graves. If anything, the more Newt voiced his objection, the wider his smirk became.

 

“I wouldn’t want your mother to think that you weren’t taken care of,” he pointed out.

 

Newt huffed, exasperated. He consoled himself by thinking that this amount of money probably did not matter much to Graves anyway. The idea of retribution, however, did not occur to him until he found himself looking at a collection of bowties and cufflinks.

 

“I wonder,” he paused, hesitating. Jean-Paul materialised at his side with alacrity, smiling in an encouraging fashion. “I have an idea of… well, would it be possible for me to order something quite… specific? As a surprise for Mr Graves, so I’ll pay for it on my own.”

 

“Of course, _Monsieur_. What do you have in mind?”

 

Newt told him.

 

_**End Chapter 8** _

 


	9. Chapter 9

Sunday turned out to be cold, murky, and grey.

 

Newt was never one to believe in omens, but distress cast strange beliefs in friendlier shades. Dreary thoughts thrived in the sombre light, slotting neatly into the likewise gloomy interior of his head. This whole debacle, he found himself contemplating with increasing dread, was a terrible mistake.

 

He had donned his new clothes, delivered only this morning by a yawning apprentice. The formal dress robe was a rich dark green, gorgeous in its elegant simplicity. The vest was a shade deeper, seemingly plain but for the half-seen shapes that would only reveal themselves from certain angles. Despite the poor light in the room, Newt had to admit that he looked very nice indeed. Even the snobbish mirror in the corner—the one which had adamantly ignored him since his arrival—deigned to acknowledge him for once. It was only a faint, vaguely approving noise, but Newt couldn’t help but hope that he was _finally_ gaining some favour with the house and its magical denizens.

 

Neither the clothes nor the house, however, were the chief source of his concern at the moment. In the mirror, he could see the imposing bulk of his bed along with its heavy curtains—and at the very centre, stark against white sheet, was an unopened box. Small, black, and nondescript, it had arrived hidden between the folds of his new robe. Inside, he knew, would be the specific item he had ordered from Jean-Paul.

 

“The master is waiting downstairs.”

 

Newt almost jumped at the flat, reproachful voice. It took him a moment to identify the speaker as the mirror right in front of him.

 

“Mr Scamander,” it continued disapprovingly when Newt failed to response, “would be advised to observe the common rules of civility and not waste the master’s time a moment longer.”

 

“Yes, of course, yes.” Flustered, Newt fussed helplessly with the buttons on his vest. “There’s just, ah, one last thing.” 

 

A very audible sigh followed his hurried advance toward the bed. The box looked considerably more ominous up close, tied with a thin silver string. A small tug was enough to unravel it.

 

A plain, white card fell out when he removed the top cover. On the smooth surface, written in elegant cursives, were the words: ‘ _with_ _our compliments’;_ one sentence, and yet it spoke enough. For the first time, Newt felt like he understood what it meant to be recognised as Percival Graves’s lover.

 

Under the card, nestled in a bed of rich black velvet, was a gorgeous leather collar.

 

For a long moment, he was too stunned to feel anything but awe. He had expected something fine—certainly an improvement to what he had possessed once, in his reckless youth—but in a very short span of time, Jean-Paul had managed to create a work of art. Instead of the traditional strap-and-buckle affair, a silver scorpion sat on each end. Curling vines were engraved along the length of leather, meeting in the middle in the shape of two letters. The craftsmanship was beautiful, detailed without being overly so. It was the kind, he realised uncomfortably, that would usually have cost the earth.

 

It was this thought that finally steeled his resolve. Fingers trembling slightly, Newt put the collar around his neck, and then looked at himself in the mirror.

 

A soft sigh echoed in the room. “A fit not quite,” the mirror chided, but there was something of a compliment in its undertone.

 

“No.” Newt cleared his throat, face warming. “Not until he… Mr Graves has to…”

 

“Ah.” A warm wave of approval washed over the room. Newt quickly turned around, trying not to stare at his reflection too long. The collar made him look different. He _felt_ different. 

 

Graves was already waiting by the front door when Newt finally came down. The man looked unbearably handsome in his formal black dress robes, and when he looked up, a softly playful smile on his lips, Newt’s certainty that he had made a colossal mistake increased tenfold.

 

“As I thought,” Graves said appreciatively, “that colour is made for you.”

 

The compliment sapped what little remained of his poise and left him reeling. Newt reached for the wall to steady himself; instead, Graves caught his hand.

 

“Ready?”

 

“Um.” His tongue was a heavy, alien presence inside his mouth. The weight around his neck, hidden under the robe’s high collar, was pressing close, as if it were responding to Graves’s presence. Perhaps it was. Newt felt his stomach twist at the thought.

 

“We’ll get there in time for lunch,” Graves continued, steering them both toward the door. “Perfect. No time for small talks or useless–”

 

He suddenly stopped. Newt’s heart jumped to his throat. He kept his eyes down, fixed on his new gleaming shoes as the terrible minute lengthened into an interminable pause.

 

“Newt.” Graves spoke his name carefully, as if it could burn him. “What are you wearing around your neck?”

 

“It’s–” Newt floundered. The word wedged itself in his throat, suddenly absurd and inappropriate. A mistake. A thoroughly stupid idea. He raised a trembling hand to cover his neck, mortified. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Will you excuse me, I– I left something–”

 

“No.” Graves stepped closer, making Newt jump back and bump into an antique table. “Let me see.”

 

His feeble protest went unheeded. One hand curled around his wrist, pulling it down as the other took possession of his chin to expose his neck and its terrible secret. Newt’s face burned as he fought to keep himself still.

 

“It’s my family crest.” Graves’s voice was low and strange. “And my initials.”

 

“It’s tradition.” Newt blurted out, desperate to make sure that Graves did _not_ misunderstand. “It’s not very modern, I know. But old families and all that. And I heard—that is, someone happened to mention that the custom’s survived in America too. And Jean-Paul had it. In his shop, I mean. So I thought…”

 

“So you thought you’d offer me this gift.”

 

Newt hastily shook his head. “No, it’s not– it’s not a gift. Truly. That would be very, um, inappropriate. Especially considering the fact that we… the point is I’m not trying to _give_ you anything. Not in that way.”

 

“Ah.” Graves released his chin, but made no effort to retreat to a more suitable distance. “So it’s _don_ _’t touch, look only_ , is it? Are you trying to be a tease, Mr Scamander?”

 

Newt flushed. “Of course not. What an idea. The purpose is quite something else, I assure you, and not the usual fiddlesticks about claims or ownership. Not at all. But, well, people continue to put much stock in it, if you know what I mean?”

 

“You think this will convince my family,” Graves said slowly.

 

“That’s the general idea, yes.” Newt nodded, embarrassed and relieved at the same time. “I’m not, ah. Honestly I’m not a terribly good actor? And your family, I’m sure they’re all intelligent, observant people, much as yourself. That’s why I have doubts that… I mean, this fiction we’ve concocted between us isn’t very convincing at all. It won’t last five minutes in their company, but if I wear this, maybe…”

 

“So your motives are purely altruistic.”

 

“I, well.” Newt faltered. He had been trying not to look at his own motives _too_ closely, but Graves was clearly expecting a reply of some kind. “More or less?” he finished lamely.

 

“How unconvincing,” Graves said in his driest voice. “I suppose you have no idea what you look like, wearing a collar with my initials on it.”

 

“Well, I do? Sort of? I mean, I _had_ to look in the mirror when I put it on, of course.”

 

“Of course.” Graves was visibly making an effort to collect himself. “But do you have any idea what you’re doing? What a _collar_ means?”

 

This time, Newt couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Yes, I do, Mr Graves. Obviously that’s why I asked Jean-Paul to… well, knowing what a collar means among old families. If we hope to be convincing, then surely this is the easiest way?”

 

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I’ll have to use _my_ magic on it.”

 

Newt had not and admitted as much, if a bit reluctantly.

 

“And once I have, I’ll be the only one who can unlock it.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The _only_ one. Not even you can take it off without my permission.”

 

“I… yes, I’m aware of the nature of the, uh, binding, as it were?”

 

“You’ll give me that kind of power over yourself,” Graves stated, sounding incredulous.

 

“I trust you,” Newt said, as honestly as he could.

 

There was no response as Graves continued to regard him in silence. Newt could feel himself flushing an even deeper shade of red. “I mean,” he added feebly, “it’s only for a few hours anyway.”

 

“There’s nothing 'only' about something like this,” was the stern response.

 

And that, Newt finally realised, guilt and shame catching up fast, was of course the answer. A perfectly reasonable one, now that he thought of it. “You’re right,” he muttered, slowly untangling the words from the sticky mess inside his throat. “I... I wasn’t... I’m sorry. I see now that it’s very inappropriate and– as you said, it’s no little thing. And in front of your family too. Someone like me. Merlin, what was I–”

 

“Someone like _you_?” Graves repeated, his voice ominously low.

 

“I understand, really,” Newt quickly assured him. “Just… a shame about the collar, though. Jean-Paul did such a beautiful job. I suppose you’re not… no, of course not. I’ll just hold on to it until, um. Well. The initials are rather a problem, but who knows? Coincidences do happen. And there are other names—not as elegant as Percival, of course, but more common ones like Peter or Philip–”

 

Graves snarled.

 

Newt made a small, alarmed noise when he found himself pressed against the table, their bodies flush together. Graves was suddenly _too_ close, breath hot on Newt’s neck, a familiar scent in his nose.

 

“Mine,” Graves murmured. Newt froze, hands gripping the edge of the table as the word writhed against his throat, like a living brand. The splayed fingers on the base of his skull held him in place for the firm press of warm, insistent lips, followed by a small click as the lock slid into place.

 

“Mine.”

 

Newt’s entire mind went blank. For a long while, the only thing he noticed was Graves’s magic, an alien presence around his neck. It was warm and steady, soothing in a way only water could be. Slowly, it seeped into his skin, branded his flesh, flowed into his blood until his entire body hummed with it.

 

“I.” Newt swallowed, navigating for speech around the new strange sensations. “Yes. It’ll be difficult, I suppose. P.G. Quite a combination.”

 

Graves made a noise that almost sounded like a laugh, lips on a fluttering pulse. Newt closed his eyes, shivering. The sound of it spread a strange warmth that made him feel a little drunk. For the first time, he noticed that he was taller than Graves, the caress of warm breaths on his neck making him tremble.

 

 _Precious impossible darling_.

 

The words touched his mind so lightly, like a breeze over bare skin. Newt blinked—thought his imagination a prey to this strange moment, with its strange susurrus of magic. Surely Graves would _never_.

 

“Is it too tight?” When Graves finally spoke, he did it slowly, carefully, the words falling soft on Newt’s skin.

 

“No, it’s.” Newt swallowed the lump in his throat. He had the strangest urge to put his arms around the man. “It’s perfect.”

 

Graves took a long, deep breath, but made no effort to move. “Not uncomfortable?” Instead, he asked again.

 

“No,” Newt answered truthfully. Which was strange. He still remembered the first time he had worn something of the kind—and the agonising days that followed, culminating in a disaster that had ended with his expulsion. But perhaps it was only to be expected. Leta had nowhere near Graves’s command of magic. “I feel…” He breathed in deeply, searching for words. “Well, I feel quite myself, actually.”

 

“Then perhaps this is what you’re meant to be.”

 

Graves spoke quietly, as if imparting a secret, but Newt couldn’t have missed the words if he had tried. His heart made a terrific leap, but before he could come up with a response, Graves had moved away. Newt bit down an instinctive urge to protest and keep the man close; instead, he kept his eyes lowered, frowning at his own reaction.

 

“You will convince them, all right,” Graves sounded amused but also a little fond.

 

Newt managed a quick, tremulous smile in return. “Good. Um. I’m glad you think so.”

 

“I do. Without a shred of doubt, I can assure you.”

 

Another strange wave of warmth caught him by surprise. Newt tried not to grin too widely but found himself helpless to resist it. “Then we have every hope for success.”

 

“That we do.”

 

“But your family. Are you sure they won’t think that I’m… I mean, that _this_ is perhaps too–”

 

“Unsurprisingly,” Graves interrupted him, brisk and firm, “I don’t give a damn what they think.”

 

“I beg your pardon, but that’s not exactly true, isn’t it?” The words had left Newt’s mouth before he could quite weigh them against the present odds. He glanced up, just long enough to note the surprise in the other man’s expression before settling his gaze somewhere less stressful, namely the opposite wall. “I mean, you wouldn’t go into all this trouble, bringing me to meet your family and all, if you didn’t really care.”

 

Surprisingly, it made Graves laugh—and _that_ , in turn, made Newt’s insides all watery again. “Will you let me, then?” the man asked smoothly. “Show you off, let you dazzle them all?”

 

Newt ducked his head, only to have the collar remind him of its presence all over again. “If you’re sure, Mr Graves.”

 

“Percival.” The correction arrived swiftly and decisively. “Call me Percival.”

 

“Percival.” He tested the word, slowly, softly—found each new syllable even lovelier than the last. Such a regal name. The feel of it on his tongue made him blush, intimate in a way that not even their proximity could equal. His heart was fluttering madly in his chest, and _that_ was before he noticed the way Graves ( _Percival_ ) stared at him.

 

“That’s better.” The man smiled, but something dark and predatory was lurking in his voice. Newt couldn’t help but feel a little pleased when he realised that _he_ was the cause. “Ready?”

 

 

-

 

 

Out of all the nerve-wracking things Newt had had to endure in the course of his adventure, meeting the Graves must have ranked somewhere in the top three—perhaps on par with sneaking into a village of temperamental giants to steal their viciously guarded treasure (as it happened, the only way to put an end to a fifty-year conflict with another village of temperamental giants).

 

They arrived at the estate just a little past noon. A long driveway lined by trees led to the family mansion, an enormous four-storey structure built in the Gothic style. The sheer size alone was daunting enough, but the gloomy-coloured walls certainly did not help. Rows of thin tall windows turned the solemn façade into something even more sinister, giving the impression of many vertical eyes looking out. Crowning it all were a dozen ornate turrets that rose from the sharply slanting roofs. Scorpions appeared in abundance, spying from every possible corner that could bear an ornament. The overall effect was moody, magnificent, and rather terrifying. Open-mouthed, Newt could only stare for a long while, taking everything in and wondering at the genius (or extreme creative liberty) of Gondulphus Graves—or whichever among his descendants had seen fit to build such an edifice.

 

Next to him, Graves heaved a deep sigh. “I know. Atrocious, isn’t it? But it really isn’t too bad inside.”

 

Immediately upon entrance, they were approached by a tall well-dressed house-elf who informed them in a snotty voice that the mistress was expecting their presence. He showed them into an elegant parlour where a large woman was majestically enthroned in an equally majestic sofa by the fire. She waved a heavily ringed hand to dismiss a group of chattering ladies gathering around her and watched their approach silently, eyes shrewd on an aged face.

 

Formal greetings were exchanged and introductions made. Newt mostly kept his gaze on the floor, all too aware that the formidable woman was looking at him with a critical eye. He could feel himself wilting under her gaze, but mercifully, she made no mention of the collar.

 

“Too skinny,” was her grim verdict instead. “Look at those bony hips. Very discouraging. But then again, your tastes have always leaned toward these slim, pretty youths.”

 

“Grandmother,” Graves— _Percival—_ muttered, as if pained.

 

“Well, no matter, that. We shall fatten him up in no time.”

 

“Please keep in mind that Newton is not a cattle.”

 

The matriarch gave her grandson an impatient look. “Of course not, but if he were to carry your heir–”

 

Newt almost choked. “I _what_.”

 

“There’s no need for that kind of discussion,” Percival interrupted, a frown evident on his face. “Yet.”

 

“I disagree,” Guinevere Graves replied in a clipped voice. “You’re not a low branch family member. You’re the future head of this family. I gave you the freedom to choose your own spouse, but that does not mean I have no say in it. Your children will hold no common position, so taking every possible precaution is only natural.”

 

“That future is too far still,” Percival argued back, every bit as austere. “And I haven’t discussed any of these with Newton. Surely you agree that this matter concerns the _two_ of us the most. The decision should lie with us. Besides, even if we _do_ marry, there is no reason why we must have any children.”

 

She made a scornful noise. “Nonsense. Every married couple wants a child sooner or later.”

 

“With all due respect, I disagree.”

 

“You’re not married yet.”

 

“Indeed, and that state looks increasingly less appealing with the extension of this conversation.”

 

There was a pause. Newt chanced a glance up just in time to catch the minute twitch at the corners of Guinevere Graves’s mouth. In that split of a second, he saw a glimpse of the grandmother who was not only very fond of her grandson, but also incredibly happy to see him.

 

“That almost doesn’t sound like an idle threat,” she said wryly.

 

“Perhaps because it isn’t.”

 

“Which would’ve been more convincing had you not brought Mr Scamander here so attired.”

 

Newt tensed. The worthy lady was looking neither at him nor his neck, but there was no mistaking her meaning. For probably the hundredth time since the package had arrived this morning, Newt wished that he hadn’t thought of the collar at all.

 

“Let’s settle the question once and for all, shall we?” Guinevere Graves continued without waiting for a response. She fixed her eyes on Newt. “Mr Scamander, do you intend to have children?”

 

Percival had stepped in front of him before Newt could even _think_ of an answer. “Wait, Grandmother–”

 

“Do let your chosen one speak for himself, Percival,” she said severely. “Unless you’re telling me that he’s mute?”

 

Newt could feel the simmer of Percival’s irritation at the jab. The other man said nothing, but neither did he budge from where he stood. It was this open display of protectiveness—and the sudden realisation that both grandmother and grandson were too similar in temper to hope that one of them would back down first—that finally pushed Newt to speak.

 

“Um, excuse me?” He swallowed thickly around the press of words in his throat as all eyes settled in his direction. “I’m not. That is, I’m not mute. It’s just, I’m not sure what to say because… to be perfectly honest, I’ve never really given the issue much thought?”

 

She nodded, keeping her gaze on Newt even as she raised a hand to stall any interruption that might come from her grandson. “Because of your preference, I take it?”

 

“My…” Newt looked away uncomfortably. “Ah. Yes, I suppose. When you put it like that.”

 

“Then you _do_ want them,” she concluded with evident satisfaction. “Well, Mr Scamander, you will have nothing to worry about on that score. Our family have some experience in these matters. Perhaps Percival has neglected to mention about one set of his great grandparents. My parents, to be exact. Both of them were men, and their union begot one of the most powerful witches of all time: me. I have no doubt that you and Percival will do the job just as admirably. But what of your lineage, boy? Who are your parents?”

 

Anxious to oblige, Newt gave a quick illustration of his family tree, starting from his deceased father and going upward. Guinevere Graves listened with her eyes closed, nodding in approval whenever he mentioned this or that distinguished name. Despite her reassurance earlier, he couldn’t help but feel a bit like a cattle.

 

“Descended from old Clement Scamander, are you? And your mother a Malfoy. Powerful line indeed.” Her steel-grey eyes flicked toward her grandson. “I commend you on your choice, Percival.”

 

“That wasn’t why I chose him,” was the terse response.

 

A thin smile settled on her lined face. “Naturally. But as long as your choice is satisfactory, we need not quarrel.” She nodded at Newt. “Welcome to our house, Mr Scamander, and do enjoy your visit. I dare say my grandson will show you around.”

 

Newt stammered a thank you, relief sweeping through him as they were excused from the majestic presence. The same pompous house-elf showed them out before summoning yet another member of the family for the next audience. As they went to join the others, Percival squeezed the side of his arm gently.

 

“You did very well, thank you.”

 

Newt managed a feeble smile. “I wish you had told me about your future role. And the question of heirs.”

 

“Never thought she would bring it up at the first meeting,” Percival said with a shrug. “All the same, she seems to like you just fine.”

 

“She’s only being kind,” Newt murmured self-consciously.

 

Percival grinned. “If you ask around, I think you’ll find that everyone else disagrees. Kindness is not a trait my grandmother is often associated with.”

 

Newt found himself frowning. “That’s terrible. I mean, she is stern, yes, but I imagine leading a large prominent family as yours does require a degree of sternness. That doesn’t mean she isn’t kind.”

 

Percival’s grin widened. “I’m glad you think so, darling,” he declared, placing a kiss on Newt’s cheek there and then, with the rest of the room looking at them.

 

The next half an hour was spent in acquainting himself with various members of the Graves clan. There were around thirty present in total, each beautifully and correctly dressed for the occasion. Some were obviously related to Percival, flaunting the same firm shape of jaw and mouth. Most of them took pains to be gracious to him, which only reinforced Newt’s certainty of the regard they held for his supposed beloved. 

 

Percival, to his relief, did not overdo himself in his role. There was the occasional hand on the small of Newt’s back, or the quiet conspiratorial whisper in his ear, and if he proved always ready to put an end to any uncomfortable line of questioning, then Newt could only feel grateful; but there was no repeat of the kiss and very little teasing, if any.

 

Newt was by no means as good an actor. Still, he did his best to smile and nod, answering politely when asked and bearing the weight of their curious gaze amidst the stream of pleasantries and subtle (as well as not-so-subtle) probes into his background. While he had never been one to care about family standing and the likes, for the first time in his life, Newt found the fact that he had been born into an ancient family a source of relief instead of the usual awkwardness.

 

Almost everyone noticed the collar. Some remarked on its beauty—and praised Percival for securing such a ‘bounty’. Others carefully averted their eyes after the first glance, and if Newt fancied seeing a hint of censure in their smiles afterward, then perhaps it wasn’t at all extraordinary. Yet others stared blatantly, their gazes a mix of disdain and hunger, and while he was used to the former, the latter was unusual and, to his distress, rather unpleasant.

 

There was something awful in this sort of attention that made Newt feel like an object. Shame turned his stomach into knots, and yet there was a hint of pride too, lurking just beneath—which, in turn, only made him feel even more shameful. He took pride in a lie, in showing himself as Percival’s and taking comfort in his proximity while it couldn’t be farther from the truth.

 

“Newt.” Percival lay a comforting hand on his back once they had shaken off the latest pair of curious relatives. “Are you all right?”

 

“Yes, I…” A smile had barely reached his lips when another man came to talk to them. Newt caught a glimpse of the same dark hair and strong chin that seemed to be a family trait, but the mouth was a thin slash that lent a cruel impression to his handsome face.

 

“Hello, cousin.” His voice was the pleasant drawl of the properly educated, like everyone else’s in the room. Newt couldn’t help but wonder if every Graves had to attend a special school to shape their vowels so.

 

“Elliot,” Percival returned the greeting civilly but made no effort to remove his hand from Newt’s back.

 

“How good of you to come when you’re so busy,” the other man said again, and even under the thick a veneer of civility, the hint of a barb was all too obvious. “I heard things have been… _lively_ down at MACUSA.”

 

“As they always are.”

 

“But murders? Hardly a daily fare, I imagine.”

 

“You imagine wrong,” Percival said in a pleasant voice that somehow also managed to sound utterly condescending. “They were accidents, not murders.”

 

A thin smile appeared on that cruel mouth. “Come now, you’re among family. Surely there’s no need for that sort of diplomatic turn of phrase.”

 

“I can’t help it,” Percival said blandly. Newt bit his lip to stave off a smile. Unfortunately, it only turned the other man’s attention to his person.

 

“And this is your… date?”

 

Newt’s face heated up. There was something in the other man’s tone that made the last word sound wrong, almost filthy.

 

Percival, however, made no indication that he had noticed. “Newt,” he said instead, “my cousin, Elliot Graves.”

 

The architect—Newt remembered from Tina’s account the other day. He managed a smile, but it was an effort not to cower when the dark eyes slowly assessed him from head to toe like they would a curious magical object.

 

“Delighted.” Elliot Graves nodded, but made no attempt to offer his hand before returning his attention to Percival. “I must say, your taste has always been, well, unique, Val.”

 

Newt felt a flutter of Percival’s irritation at the deliberate use of nicknames. “I’m afraid I find being common rather tedious,” he retorted, matter-of-fact, as his hand moved slowly up Newt’s spine, to rest on the back of the collar.

 

Something violent and ugly flashed across the other man’s expression. “Yes, you always have to be special, don’t you?” he spat, sounding so vicious that Newt almost took a step back. “Carrying your pet around like this. Why not just bring him naked on a leash?”

 

Newt flinched as the collar suddenly burned hot around his neck. Even worse was the _feeling_ that Percival was angry, that it was somehow his fault, and for some reason the guilt and shame was magnified to such an extent that he trembled under their crushing weight.

 

Percival’s hand hadn’t moved from his collar. “And allow you to get an eyeful?” he said, mocking and challenging at the same time.

 

Elliot Graves laughed, but the sound was an angry one. “As if I would ever stoop so low. Unlike you, cousin, I have standards. _I_ would never bring someone who not only failed to graduate from school but also is an utter disgrace to his family into this house and meet my–”

 

The rest of the words died in a burst of Percival’s magic. “Say that again,” he said in a low furious voice, “and I’ll make you permanently mute. I’ll rip your tongue off here and now, in front of your parents and your new wife.”

 

For a moment, there was only silence. The room, too, had fallen silent, aware of the conflict in their midst. Robbed of his voice, Elliot Graves could do nothing, face slowly turning red with humiliation.

 

Newt only noticed all these in a haze. Percival’s fury was like a heavy pressure that squeezed his lungs and bred panic in the pit of his stomach. It only subsided somewhat when Percival turned away with a loud, pointed 'excuse me' and steered him toward a corner, away from the others.

 

“Don’t mind what he said,” Percival said, despite sounding like he very much minded himself. “He’s a prick—has always been. Those things he said were only meant to insult me.”

 

“No, he’s right,” Newt blurted out before the sense of humiliation could silence him. “He wasn’t lying. I _was_ expelled from Hogwarts and—”

 

“I know.”

 

Newt almost flinched. Percival’s face was all grim lines and his spirit sank even further at the sight. “You do?”

 

“Do you honestly think I didn’t try and find out all I could about you once we’ve come to an arrangement?”

 

Newt lapsed into a chastised silence, feeling extremely foolish. Of course Percival had known. A fresh wave of mortification rose and threatened to swallow him whole, leaving his emotions a jumbled mess that he couldn't make neither head nor tail of.

 

“You look unwell,” Percival said again, sounding even more reproachful.

 

Newt shook his head, unable to bring himself to look up, let alone speak. Tangled thoughts crowded every corner of his mind. He found himself drowning in them until Percival took his wrist in a firm grip.

 

“Come with me.”

 

He was brought outside, to the back of the house. A long porch opened up to a terrace and a flight of stone stairs, leading toward a lake. The water was grim and foreboding under the frowning sky. Percival sat him down on the balustrade but remained standing himself, shielding Newt from view. 

 

The cool air carried a hint of rain. Newt sat quietly, the stone cold and grounding, as his thoughts shifted and unravelled. The collar pulsed gently, calming. Little by little, the world began to realign itself.

 

“All right?”

 

Percival’s voice was all gentleness. Newt swayed a little, a quivering breath in his throat. It wasn’t only Percival’s presence. It was his magic too, spreading and engulfing him like a cool, comforting blanket. All he wanted to do was to sink into this safe, quiet space until not a single thought existed in the echoing vault of his mind.

 

“I’m so sorry.” He tried for sincerity but only managed bare coherence. “I don’t usually get panic attacks like this. It’s–”

 

“Hush. It’s not a panic attack. I suspect it’s the collar.”

 

“Oh.” Newt glanced up, mouth suddenly dry. “You mean… Jean-Paul put a spell on it?”

 

“I shouldn’t be surprised.” Percival’s hand came to rest on his throat, thumb on a hammering pulse. “That’s the real purpose of this sort of thing, isn’t it?”

 

Newt lowered his eyes. Surprisingly, the jumbled mess of his emotions quieted down with the touch. Common sense reasserted itself. Now that he had discovered the most likely source of his strange agitation, he could feel more at ease.

 

“That’s... good. I mean, a relief.”

 

The thumb now moved along the line of his jaw. “We can remove the collar if it’s too much.”

 

Newt almost withdrew, as if struck. There was an uncomfortable twist in his stomach that he recognised as shame. The suggestion sounded like an accusation, that he had failed.

 

“No, it’s all right,” he said quickly, panic lending an edge to his voice.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes. It’ll only raise unnecessary questions from your family.”

 

Percival snorted. “Don’t worry about them. Their opinions aren’t worth shit.”

 

A weak laugh startled Newt, rising deep from his chest. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

 

“Why not? It’s true. They probably think that I’m _disciplining_ you right now.”

 

The idea was preposterous. Newt wanted to give it all the incredulity it deserved but a fresh blush was all he could manage. He couldn’t even bring himself to admit that he probably did not mind the suggestion as much as Percival thought.

 

“They’re still your family,” he murmured instead.

 

“It’s exactly because they’re my family. I can say what I want about them.”

 

“That’s rather terrible of you.”

 

“Haven’t you heard?” Percival grinned down at him, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. “I’m a terrible man.”

 

“That’s not true.” Remonstrance came easily; truth had never been plainer to Newt. “You’re a kind man.”

 

This time, it was Percival who laughed. “That’s a word I’ve never been associated with either.”

 

“Only because you don’t know they think that of you.”

 

There was a pause as something unreadable flickered across Percival’s expression. Newt quickly lowered his face, the lapel of Percival’s jacket brushing his cheek. They remained there in silence until the sound of a gong recalled them inside for lunch.

 

_**End Chapter 9** _

 


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